


better creatures

by john1513



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blood, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Hurt, Idiots in Love, Lots of side characters, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic, Mild Language, Minor Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Pirate AU, Pirates, Protective Crowley, Slow Burn, Sword Fighting, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Touch-Starved, Violence, What else is new, but it's only implied and not detailed!, can never be too careful!!!, god the ANGST, mentions of beating someone up, no betas because I like to create problems on purpose, please please let me know if there any other tags that need tagging and I really mean that, slowest of slow burns, some cursing in case someone's not into that, will add tags as I go!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:21:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 96,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21858217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/john1513/pseuds/john1513
Summary: Navigator Aziraphale gets captured on a pirate ship run by the notorious Captain Crowley, known for his cruelty and malice across the seas. He wasn't ready, though, for the softness that lay dormant underneath those copper curls and long, thin, calloused fingers. But a pirate could never fall in love with a Royal soldier, especially not one like Aziraphale...could he?//idiots in love, but make it pirates ;)*also, a STRONG emphasis on the 'idiots' part, you have been warned.*
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 776
Kudos: 622
Collections: Courts GO Re-Reads, Good Omens Human AUs, Top Aziraphale Recs





	1. welcome aboard, love

**Author's Note:**

> "i am made of bullets,  
> shrapnel.  
> you are solar flares,  
> and soft lips.  
> better creatures could love you  
> i know.  
> but now they'll have to get  
> through me."  
> //
> 
> so this is just a self-indulgent pirate au of good omens, simply because i just couldn't stop thinking about it after seeing some artwork by the lovely [@rebecca-polidori](https://rebecca-polidori.tumblr.com/) on tumblr of our lovely ineffable idiots in pirate-looks and hoo-boy my brain really liked that. anyway i'll try to do the idea justice, and meanwhile i'll try my best to figure out a way to link the post on here so y'all can see what i'm talking about, it's quite lovely. anywayyyy i'll do my best and please be gentle with me okeay :')

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i think i've found a way to link the OG post from @rebecca-polidori that inspired all this, hopefully this works??? ok here goes
> 
> [Ineffable Husbands pirate AU](https://rebecca-polidori.tumblr.com/post/186214747624/ineffable-husbands-pirate-au-therell-be-more-of)

“Sssso...what do we have here, hmm?” He drawled out the words slowly and looked down smugly at their fresh catch, a small smirk on his face and eyes hidden as always by dark, heavy sunglasses--a thin layer between him and the rest of the angry, hungry world. The ship seemed to vibrate with restless, teeming bodies; a large crew of what Crowley might affectionately call “rough-looking gents” crowding around a kneeled figure. They writhed together as one hungry mass, still riding the high of adrenaline after a successful takeover of a ship from the opposition’s side; point one to the Hellions’ crew.

The ship smelled like sweat but a bit also like copper if you took a good whiff, a solemn reminder that this was not a game; this was war. And sometimes, war has casualties. Not any if Crowley had any say in it but hey, sometimes the opposition gets too hasty and humans are just humans after all. Bloodthirsty. Violent. Not bad, really, just sometimes a bit..impulsive. 

The mass of bodies parted like the sea for him, and this Moses came in the form of a wafer-thin, red-haired, long man whose curls fell far past his shoulders in shiny, bouncy locks. He currently had a piece of white cloth twisted and braided into one of the thicker strands. He actually was not dressed much differently than the rest of the men were currently, but he walked with an aura of authority that made it clear this was the one to fear. 

He sidled up slowly to the kneeling figure, who was being held up solidly by two others of the crew. Crowley approached their captured prisoner curiously and saw that the man was already sagging from exhaustion in the arms of his captors, and his crisp, white shirt was splattered with tiny splashes of blood. Upon hearing Crowley’s footsteps approaching, the man whipped his head up to look fiercely up at him with a suddenly renewed vigor and an unmistakable air of defiance. 

Crowley’s first thought was a strange one; he’s beautiful. His face was serious, obviously being careful not to show any overt emotion, but he was quite easy to read regardless. Underneath the mask of anger was something he wasn’t expecting to see. Not fear or terror; that Crowley was used to. That, he could understand. What must a gang of pirates have planned for a prisoner of war from the opposition? What horrors must they inflict on a man that represents all that they fight against--money, power, control? Crowley was used to being feared. Easy, really. You get used to it. It’s nice, even, the respect. The fear. The constancy and predictability of it, at least. But looking upon this round, pale face, Crowley only saw frustration...inconvenience. 

_Oh, I like this one._


	2. focus, crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wow we all stan a pretty blue-eyed boy, don't we. well yep that's the whole chapter. crowley appreciates pretty aziraphale. carry on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah okay i'm only posting two chapters now and then i will attempt a posting schedule. lord. how do people do that?? okay here we go.

He studied his face and found himself temporarily anchored by bright, sky blue eyes. They were fresh, clean. So unlike what Crowley was used to. He was used to dirty. Rough. The deep purples of bruises and the blood red of a deep gash and even the bright yellow of the cursed eyes he kept quietly hidden away. But here...bright as a spring’s morning. He could fly a kite in a blue so blue. He stared quietly and wondered exactly what kind of sky he saw reflected there--was it the dawn after a heavy thunderstorm the night before, or was it closer to a cloudy day, where the clouds are so thin that they only just tint the sky behind it a pale, blurry hue? Or like the quiet morning’s dawn after it’s snowed out. Clean. Pure. Soft. He knows that’s it, somehow.

 _Anyway_. 

_Go on, focus, Crowley._

But he was beautiful, truly. Not like the burly, big men that surrounded him, heavily tattooed, muscles sharp and defined. Nothing wrong with that, of course. In fact, there was a lot to appreciate there. But no matter the physical qualities of the many men he had met over the years, they had all had calloused skin. Layers of tough and of strong and impenetrable that permeated the way they walked and talked. They gazed at people daring them to make the first move, snarling mouth and sharp teeth ready to pounce at the first sign of movement. He had seen that so much, seen it in the mirror, that it was commonplace for him. No, this man was...soft, in every glorious way. 

_Focus_.

He stood there for 15 seconds before the prisoner just looking, watching. Studying. Under his careful scrutiny the prisoner’s face began to shift, just slightly. Where there was once defiance and practiced indifference, there began to appear hints of confusion, and then a shade of frustration and impatience. Crowley was thoroughly enjoying the show, and his little smirk grew just the tiniest bit. Just enough to be noticed by the prisoner, however.

“Do what you will with me. Just hurry up about it, will you?” he sighed, rolling his eyes just a touch, for good measure. Although he felt his lungs flutter as he spoke, his words leaving him in one harsh, terrified breath, he willed his voice not to shake. If he was gonna go, he’d go with a little dignity, thank you very much.

Crowley’s smile grew more still, impressed by the prisoner’s gall in the face of the sea’s most feared pirate captain. He decided then--he would have a bit of fun with this one. “What’s your name, _dear_?” he sneered, head slightly tilted to the left, face just inches from the prisoner’s. 

“Aziraphale,” he said, voice betraying just a bit of shakiness now. “My name is Aziraphale.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah!! okay i have a few chapters going but no idea how long it will be, i'm thinking 15 chapters maybe? ish? i'll keep y'all updated. anyway if you're bored in the meantime come bug me on tumblr at @alwayscomewhenyoucall or read [my other fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21460432) on ao3. it's a one-shot of the idiots post-apocalypse slow-dancing in the bookshop, it's quite angsty but sweet, if you're into that. k love y'all bye
> 
> p.s. question, as i'm a bit new to this posting stuff, do y'all prefer long chapters? or little short ones like these? lmk!!


	3. sink, or swim?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sooooo new prisoner, what do we do with him??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i think i've formulated most of a plot for the story and i'm VERY EXCITED hopefully y'all will enjoy reading it as much as it genuinely is for me writing this and putting it out into the world. there's a lot to fit into this story but it's gonna be great, promise. thanks for being here :)

“Azira-phale,” Crowley rolled the name around his mouth, testing its feel round his tongue like trying some new, exotic ale. “Charmed.”

The prisoner just stared.

After a beat, the man to Aziraphale’s right muttered, “What do we do with him, Captain?”

Now, usually, the captured prisoners of a ship takeover would be temporarily stored in the cells below the ship. Crowley and his gang had a strict moral code, although none of the Imperial Angels had managed to figure it out yet. To the Angels, who were employed by the elusive but terrifying Royals, Crowley’s gang attacked ships randomly, causing them losses in ships, profits, and entire crews, and generally just really mucking things up. The Hellions quite lived up to their name. Quite suddenly word would get back to the Royals that, _those Hellions, Sir, they’ve done it again, Sir...seems they’ve taken over the S.S. Marian...Yes, Sir, that one...Well, no, we’re not quite sure how but it seems we’ve lost track of most soldiers aboard the ship and all the supplies have been, well, lost to the sea, we suppose, Sir…_

However, the Hellions did not, in fact, attack randomly. They were rather decent people, Crowley liked to think, underneath all the rebellion and fighting and drinking. Most of them, at least. Well, some of them. But one thing they did not do was murder people simply because they happened to have been lucky enough to get captured as their ship was being taken over. That was just their own rotten luck. No need to die for it. Anyway, murder was messy. So usually, the prisoners would be sent to the jails below and waited out for a bit, just enough to make them a bit hungry and very scared. Okay, so he didn’t particularly like that bit but he had to admit it helped for the rest to work. 

After a while, he’d saunter down there himself, alone, and strike a little deal with them; none of the crew was exactly sure what he said to them down there, but when they were brought back up there were always one of two outcomes. One, the prisoner, scared and hungry, would swear to be better, to do better. He’d be fed a bit, and then shoved out of the ship with a hushed, short warning from Crowley at the next island or dock they’d make. Crowley would push down his sunglasses to reveal a pair of bright yellow slitted eyes and the prisoner’s own eyes would widen comically, and he would scatter quickly into the crowds at the dock, never to be seen again. 

Option two was far more interesting, but much more rare, a special treat for the crew. A traitor. Every once in a blue moon, Crowley would come back up from below, leading the prisoner gently by the elbow. He’d say _Lads, we’ve got another one,_ and the crew would study him for a few seconds. What passed through their minds is difficult to say exactly, but to the prisoner it seemed that he was suddenly being weighed and measured for certain amounts of bravery, courage. A defiant spirit buried deep inside somewhere. And if the crew were satisfied---and they were always satisfied with the ones Crowley chose---they’d cheer for him like they’d just stumbled into an old friend at the tavern. Crowley was very careful to pick only those he knew hated the Royals and the Angels as much as he did, and the ones that had that spark of rebellion in them just waiting to be fanned into a wildfire. And he was never wrong.

However, there was no Option #3. You were handpicked to join the ranks of the Hellions, or you were tossed onto an island in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the blessing of mercy on your life and the clothes on your back. There was no Option 3. 

At least, not until today.

“This one...hmmmm.” Crowley drew out the sounds as he deliberated, mostly for that dramatic effect that he was quite famous for in the rumors that managed to surface about the fearless captain. Although partly it was also a bit of clever stalling. 

_What to do...what to do with you, Angel._

The crew held their breath collectively and watched with wide eyes as Crowley weighed his options. 

Sink, or swim?

Crowley’s eyes skittered down Aziraphale’s face to his soft jawline and without really meaning to raised a hand to touch there, that space just below his earlobe. Was the skin there really as soft as it looked? _Lucky man. Never worked a day in his life, looks like. Well-cared for. Well-loved._ As he neared the warm skin there, he stopped himself just short of his jaw and only barely ghosted his hand over Aziraphale’s skin. He felt the tiniest shudder threaten to erupt from underneath his fingers, but Aziraphale’s gaze held steady. He saw in Aziraphale a man of stature, power, even respect but saw no badges or buttons on his overcoat that proclaimed such a position in the Angel ranks. He saw anger and defiance there but not at being kidnapped or captured, merely at being inconvenienced. Like he’s been caught waiting entirely too long for something he was sure would take just a moment. He would never join the Hellions’ ranks, and frankly he wouldn’t quite fit in with the rest of the crew, with their bitterness and their alligator-scale skin. But he couldn’t let go of this one. The moment their eyes shifted and connected with each other it was like suddenly Crowley was tethered to the spot, to that second in time, and it felt...odd. A good...kind of odd. 

“Take him to my quarters,” he finally proclaimed. “Tie him up there, and let’s see what what information we can get from him. Mm. He quite looks like somebody who knows something, doesn’t he?” The crew murmured in agreement and looked at Aziraphale, searching for some giveaway or tell that this was true. 

Aziraphale glanced around nervously, for the first time betraying some emotion in his face among the crew. Suddenly, he was being yanked up by the shoulders and pushed ( _not unkindly just...briskly,_ thought Aziraphale idly) towards a set of stairs leading downwards into the ship’s center. 

_Oh, this can’t be good..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so it's been a bit tough having time to write over the holidays sorry...but i really am doing my best to get chapters out! i'm also trying to work out some minor details in the plot but the rough outline is there y'all i can't wait!! as always please please please come bug me on tumblr @alwayscomewhenyoucall (https://alwayscomewhenyoucall.tumblr.com/), it motivates me to work faster and get more writing in lol. love y'all!!  
> p.s. also instead of paying attention to christmas mass i was busy planning out plot points in my head for this little angel-demon love story sooo if i'm going to hell, it's thanks to this story y'all. well actually i'm kidding, i was already going to hell anyway. what's a little blasphemy at this point?? k bye for real now.


	4. oh, good lord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little backstory on aziraphale, and crowley and aziraphale's first real conversation yayyy! goes about as well as you'd imagine, though. love my little pining idiots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas if you celebrate and merry day off to those who don't!!! this is my little holiday gift to y'all, hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> also there's a quote in there i quite like, it's by Jorge Luis Borges if you're interested in looking him up.

Aziraphale was sat in the middle of a nice, medium-sized room in the warm caverns of the ship. He felt like he was right in the belly of it, ready to be digested. Maybe it should have felt terrifying, or suffocating, but it didn’t. It wasn’t homey, either, though. Not like what Aziraphale was used to. Aziraphale’s home back in London could hardly be called a home, really; more of a storage unit for all the things he’d found fascinating in another life. Knick-knacks, printing machines and beautiful feather quills, ancient scrolls, all sorts of things. 

Not to mention his vast, and very impressive, collection of books. Oh, how he loved his books. It was like collecting different lives that he could pretend to have lived, each book having given him the opportunity to be different people, to travel different worlds. He loved to collect words and phrases, small pieces of life and wisdoms that had been phrased so perfectly there, and which could convey feelings that he could never quite articulate in the same way. 

And after finishing a particularly good book, after long and winding and terrible journeys, in that bittersweet afterglow of it all, Aziraphale was left changed in some way, like he really had changed from the beginning of the book’s journey to its end, and he was left riding a high of knowledge or adrenaline or internal wisdom that the book had given him, something anyone else on the streets passing him by would never be able to understand and never even suspect. 

And best of all, he could do all this and never have to leave the comfort of his home, unbothered, wrapped in a soft woven blanket, hot cuppa held close to his chest. 

_‘I have always imagined that paradise will be a kind of library,_ ’ and all that, he supposed. 

When he had first been recruited to the Imperial Angels, he had been young and quite naive, he hated to admit. He believed that his life of luxury and ease was due to the generosity and benevolence of the Royals, and that it was his duty to stand by them when they called to action. And when he turned of age, he enlisted to serve in the Royals’ army in order to fight off the pirates that threatened his way of existence. 

At least, that’s what he had been told. In truth, the Royals were an unknowable group of cold, entitled leaders, guided by the even more unknowable orders of the queen. No one had seen her in years. Some people spoke of her as quiet and kind. Some thought her punishing and cruel. But most people didn’t know what to think. There were even rumors that there was no queen anymore, only Royal leaders giving orders that were convenient to their own desires and that were secretly all part of some big scheme to take down the current state of things. There were even quiet, quiet whispers of rumors that spoke of a conspiracy, that maybe the Royals were working with the pirates and it was all a part of some Great Plan. 

Aziraphale hadn’t believed any of it, of course. Not at first. He signed up to be a soldier, a guardian of life as he knew it, and he would fight tooth and nail to preserve that. He would stand by the Royals because they had provided a life where Aziraphale could have a home, a life, a cause. 

But now, having served years at sea with countless other soldiers and with a severe case of homesickness for the comfort his books had brought him once upon a time, he had started to doubt. Doubt about the purpose of the soldiers at sea. Doubt that there were even orders that needed to be carried out. That they were the right thing. Doubted, even, that the pirates were as awful as they had been made out to seem by the enlisting service so long ago. He had met some pirates, and they were quite awful, sure, but there was something that itched at the back of his mind about how well-timed attacks were sometimes, and how the pirates sometimes seemed to have some knowledge of the movements and plans of the Imperial Angels’ armies, sometimes before even Aziraphale did.

However, right about now, he was starting to believe the horrid stories he’d heard about the opposition. The pirates were known to be a bit disbanded and disorganized in their efforts, each ship basically going off on their own, following vague orders but mostly just causing their own kind of chaos without a larger system or plan in place. There were some gangs or ships that were more feared than others, but none had a reputation like that of the S.S. Mary. Aboard it rode a fearsome group of pirates that were called the Hellions by those who knew of them, and they were led by a fearsome man rumored to have engineered every major disaster, shipwreck, and loss of the Imperial Angels. And here Aziraphale sat, smack in the middle of that man’s chambers, apparently.

He sat, and waited.

_Bit boring, really. How rude._

He tugged hard on the ropes that held his hands behind his back, and found that they were quite snug. Not painful, just tight enough that he couldn’t wiggle out if he tried. He tried the ones at each of his ankles, and came to the same conclusion. He could scoot the chair around if he tried, but there really wasn’t anywhere to go at this point. It’s not like he could go out the same way he came in, he’d have to---somehow---sneak back down a long hallway of what seemed like small rooms, probably bedchambers for the entire crew, go back up the small stairs onto the deck, and pass undetected past a crew of pirates over the ledge and...into the ocean. The ship he had been on had already sailed away even before he had been captured, apparently happier to save the lives of those aboard and escape than to risk going back for Aziraphale. He understood that. It was painful, but it made sense. He was a soldier. He knew the risks. He’d miss his books, though, if he died. Quite dearly.

If he made it all the way out there, hypothetically, he’d have to jump ship, then. And no way he’d survive the fall, still tied up in a chair. He’d just drown. 

He looked around his current surroundings and saw a large glass window opposite the door he’d come in, and found that he must be right on the edge of the ship, towards its back end. There was another door out onto a small sort of balcony that faced the ocean. If he could scoot his chair, he could open that door and jump over the ledge, although he’d face the same problem again. Can’t swim, all tied up.

_Damn._

Oh! He has a knife doesn’t he, right up against his thigh. It was secured on the upper part of his thigh, almost touching his hip bone, but he couldn’t reach it with his hands tied the way they were. Maybe if he wriggled round a bit..?

There was a grating, sudden noise as the heavy door swung open, creaky and stubborn with its years of use. Crowley’s boots had just taken two loud, bustling steps into the room when the chair Aziraphale had been sitting in had tipped backwards with a very loud thud.

“Alright there, love?” Crowley said, and Aziraphale could clearly hear the grin in his voice as he said it. He couldn’t see the grin, however, as his head was currently angled awkwardly on the floor towards the ceiling and his feet dangled above him uncomfortably.

Crowley took quieter steps towards Aziraphale, and reached over his body to grasp at the back of the chair on the floor. Aziraphale tensed noticeably at the sudden closeness between them, but had no choice but to allow himself to be pulled up and forward, and right into Crowley’s face.

“Hello, Angel,” Crowley drawled. “No need to look so scared, you know. I won’t hurt you. For now. I’ve got some questions for you, yes?”

Aziraphale just stared, wide-eyed. Crowley hadn’t moved his face away from where it had been when Aziraphale was righted, and it was just inches from his own. He could see his own terrified expression reflected in the captain’s dark glasses. He remained quiet.

“What were you doing when I walked in?” Crowley asked. “Trying to go somewhere, are we? Well, you wouldn’t really get anywhere. Ship’s left you already, Angel. You’re stranded.” He paused. “Unless…”

Crowley stepped back slowly and thought for a beat, then reached up to push his sleeves up his arms. He stepped forward again, right into Aziraphale’s space, but instead of leaning his face down to meet Aziraphale’s, he slowly bent his legs to kneel in between Aziraphale’s open legs. He felt suddenly very...vulnerable. It was impossible to know what Crowley was thinking in that moment; Aziraphale couldn’t really read his expressions from behind the black glasses he wore. But he seemed to study Aziraphale’s face for a beat and then move his gaze down Aziraphale’s right leg. He raised his hands slowly, seeming to enjoy the tenseness that had gripped Aziraphale, and touched his hands gently on the Angel’s ankle. His grip tightened a touch around the ankle and slid up Aziraphale’s calf slowly, and then his knee.

Crowley looked up then, lips pressed into a mischievous grin, and arched his eyebrows up at Aziraphale. Aziraphale still said nothing, but locked eyes with the captain, some sort of magnetism pulling him there time and time again. His eyes searched the black glasses for the eyes underneath and saw nothing. But he could feel Crowley looking back at him, frozen there, held in that glance. After a few seconds, Aziraphale felt himself release some of the tension he held in his body, and his muscles softened, just a bit, underneath Crowley’s touch. He got the sense, in the back of his head, that it had felt almost as if...Crowley had been asking permission.

As if on cue, Crowley looked back down at his hands and pushed them further up past Aziraphale’s knee and slid up his thigh softly. He stopped at a respectable distance up his thigh, and made a face of dissatisfaction as he moved to do the same on the other leg. Aziraphale held his breath as he repeated the same movements up his left leg, and then tensed when Crowley reached his upper thigh and stopped.

“Ah, and what do we have here? Is that a pocket-knife tied to your leg, or are you just very happy to see me?” He said it with such a big, satisfactory smirk on his face that Aziraphale knew he should feel very annoyed, but right at that moment he happened to be way too out of breath to even attempt to school his expression into something angrier. He could still feel the ghost of Crowley’s hands on his legs, and up his thighs, and he had light goosebumps still prickling all over his pale skin. His mind really, really wanted to be disappointed at Crowley’s discovery of the knife, and therefore of a now-definite lack of a means to escape, but his body was decidedly a lot less annoyed and a lot more...interested.

Crowley looked up quickly and scanned his face curiously, and the smirk faltered just a bit. “Well, I’m gonna have to take that, obviously,” he stated, and he raised his arm in a stunted motion, like right at that moment he had realized that he’d actually have to get in there somehow and take it. He hesitated a moment, looking up and down Aziraphale’s leg and eventually seemed to decide that it was safer to reach up his leg from the bottom than to attempt to reach the knife from the hip and then reach down. He snaked a thin arm up the trouser leg and brushed over the outside of Aziraphale’s bare leg heavily, skin-to-skin. Aziraphale could feel the goosebumps come back with greater force than before, and his skin burned with the unexpected contact. 

Crowley had attempted to be less, well, shall we say _invasive_ , in removing the knife from its current hiding place. However, it quickly became obvious that he hadn’t thought the action through well enough, and that there had been no easy way on Earth of proceeding smoothly. He managed to squeeze his arm up Aziraphale’s loose trouser leg and then had to twist it awkwardly up his bent knee and over his thigh, and then still had to inch his fingers underneath the light fabric of Aziraphale’s boxer briefs under his trousers to finally, finally reach the dagger held snugly by a set of elastic straps against the warm, pliable skin of his upper thigh. As soon as Crowley felt the tip of the dagger between his fingers, he yanked it out harshly back out the trouser leg, and when Aziraphale looked up at Crowley he felt Crowley let out a harsh breath at the same time that Aziraphale himself let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding. He glanced at Crowley’s cheeks so close to him ( _are those...freckles?_ ) and saw that he was blushing, quite hard, and refused to look up and meet Aziraphale’s startled gaze.

“Nnyeah, okay, that’s enough of that, then,” Crowley said with a strained voice. “Right.” Crowley stood up quickly and lost his balance a bit, and took a big step back to accommodate the movement. He glanced down at his hands and saw the dagger there, seeming almost surprised that he had it, like he’d forgotten it was the whole reason he’d been here in the first place.

“Ngk. Okay.” Crowley still refused to look up at Aziraphale, and quite suddenly made up his mind that he needed to be somewhere else, immediately. He stepped briskly to the door and left without another word, and Aziraphale was left stranded in the middle of the room, feeling suddenly very alone, and very cold.

_Oh, good Lord._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahaha i LOVE writing awkward mr. anthony Walking Panic Attack crowley + also pining so obviously this was so fun to write. i strongly identify with the bouncing back and forth between haha-flirty-loves-making-others-uncomfortable and OH-GOD-this-was-a-mistake-i-am-a-gay-disaster-and-awkward-idiot sort of thing that crowley has got goin on. except a lot more emphasis on the awkward disaster part of it all.  
> also you all MAKE MY ENTIRE LIFE with your comments i super super super appreciate that, and i love you all so much. and even those of you who don't comment, i see y'all and love y'all very much as well thank you thank you thank you. please come bug me on tumblr at @alwayscomewhenyoucall (https://alwayscomewhenyoucall.tumblr.com/) or in the comments. k happy holidays :)


	5. pale blue eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> new character! and the beginnings of a plot. we're getting closer to the good bits, y'all.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooof it's been so crazy these last couple weeks it's been tough finding time to write, sorry y'all. i had a bit of an injury (i'm fine) and then i got sick (feeling better now) but i'm back and ready to write again. thanks for sticking with me. here's a short little chapter to get us back into it.

Crowley stood on the opposite side of the door, pressing his back tightly against the creaky wood. His red, curly locks would probably get stuck on the scraggly bits of wood there that had splintered out from use and age, but right now Crowley couldn’t focus on anything but the dagger in his hands. He looked down at it as he caught his breath carefully, feeling like he’s just run a mile, warmth flooding his veins creating a deep red flush all over his skin. 

He held the knife gently and realized that it must have been quite special to the prisoner. This wasn’t just some pocket-knife he’d picked up at a market. He ran delicate fingers over the pearl-white handle and over the tiny, gold detailing near its hilt like paper-thin lace that curled all around its handle. There was a small inscription there in the same golden style, two ornate angel wings that formed the base of the hilt, the division between the handle and the blade. It was gorgeous, and obviously very well-cared for. The blade itself was thin and not too long, just about three inches of steel. It gleamed in the meager light of the ship, like it had been polished and polished and polished till water could just slide right off it. It was otherworldly, almost as if it shone from the inside out. Like it was on fire. It was a small thing, but obviously loved.

He stood there for several moments, just running his long, bony fingers gently along the blade, feeling less like he’d removed a weapon from a prisoner and more like he’s stumbled onto a private treasure he wasn’t meant to see. It felt deeply personal, somehow.

“Hey boss!” Crowley felt his body jerk in surprise without his permission and looked up quickly to see one of his younger crew members sauntering towards him with purpose. “Did you find anythin’ out?”

Crowley stuffed the dagger quickly into his trouser pocket and pushed his glasses back up his face with a pointed glance. He tried to school his face into something more fitting of a fearless captain and not some lovesick idiot. _You’re going soft, Crowley._ “Not your concern, Adam. Don’t you have something else to do?”

Adam always had an air of unwavering confidence about him, despite his innocent eyes and childish face. Like he knew he could get away with anything; like if he wanted something, the world would simply bend to his desires. Annoyingly, that was usually the case. Crowley had found him once on his ship after making port on a small coast in England some years ago, having sneaked on while the boat was docked and then simply appearing, unashamed, once the ship had set sail again. He was very young then, but he’d never divulged how old he actually was, even then. Adam had been stubborn enough to insist on joining the Hellions, and Crowley had incidentally been in need of more crew members at that time, and allowed him, reluctantly, to stay on. 

( _The truth was that he’d taken a shine to the boy only moments after meeting him, feeling as though he’d met a younger version of himself; full of questions, and doubt about the way the world worked, a sense of adventure and a desire for knowledge, but most of all a crushing hopelessness about the injustice of it all, coupled with the smallest, tiniest grain of hope that maybe, if they tried hard enough, they could carve out their own corners of the world where things would be okay and no one would bother them. Crowley saw in Adam the boy he had once been, with less bitterness. But he’d never admit to actually_ liking _the boy. He had a reputation to worry about, he wasn’t about to become known throughout the sea as the Hellions’ Orphanage, now was he? And if Adam knew that Crowley actually_ liked _him? Oh, the boy would be insufferable.)_

“Yeah, yeah,” answered Adam, “But did he say anythin’? Is he a captain? A spy, maybe?” His face lit up with excitement at the idea. “I bet he’s been sent here by the Royals thinkin’ we wouldn’t know nothin’ but you knew he was a spy and that’s why you tied him up and now you’re gonna---”

“ _No_ , Adam, nothing yet. He’s not a bloody spy, alright.” Although now that he thought about it, he guessed he couldn’t really say. He didn’t know anything about the prisoner, really. Guess that needs to change. “I’m working on it.”

Adam pouted a bit at that. So much for adventure.

Crowley glared at him more fiercely and said, “Shouldn’t you be cleaning the decks or something?” 

“Yeah, alright, alright.” He lowered his head dejectedly and started to turn away and back up the narrow hallway towards the upper deck. 

“Actually, Adam, will you get someone to bring dinner to my chambers? It’s getting late.”

“...for the prisoner?”

Crowley thought for a second. “For me, but yes, bring some for the prisoner, too. He must be quite hungry.” Adam narrowed his eyes and gave him a suspicious look. Crowley knew that Adam never thought to hide his thoughts from the world. It often got him in trouble. Crowley liked that about him. Especially since he had always been taught to hide away his own thoughts and feelings behind a thick, sturdy wall of repression and dark, black sunglasses. 

A beat passed and Crowley added, “Well, he won’t say much if he’s hungry, now, will he? He seems the fussy type.” Adam continued to stand there quietly, watching Crowley try to recover. “Well, go on then,” he bit out harshly, “Or I’ll make you scrub the entire deck on your knees tomorrow. _Twice_. Yes?”

That made Adam widen his eyes and turn around quickly in the direction of the kitchens. Crowley heard him mutter under his breath as he quickly shifted his feet down the corridor, “Aye, aye, cap’n.”

“ _I heard that, Adam_.” 

That boy was more trouble than he was worth sometimes. But he had made Crowley start to wonder...who was Aziraphale? Why had his crew left him behind? And would they try to come back for him? That wouldn’t be very good, considering they weren’t expecting another fight so soon. 

Crowley would have to go back in there and find out, then.

Okay, he could do that.

He turned around to face the door again. The splintered wood, predictably, yanked on some of his hair and pulled out a strand or two. Crowley grimaced at the sharp pull on his scalp. Maybe he’ll get Adam to sand that door down tomorrow, as punishment for asking too many questions. He always asked too many questions. Crowley used to do that a lot when he was younger, too. Didn’t work out too well for him.

He stretched his hand out towards the brass doorknob, and then proceeded to just...stare at it. Just stared. He felt frozen in place there, on the edge of something big. He just couldn’t stop thinking about those pale blue eyes looking down at him when Crowley had been on his knees before him. Just the thought of seeing Aziraphale again made Crowley's skin prickle and his heart constrict tightly at the base of his throat. 

He thought about how he had been able to see (from that _glorious_ point of view) the quick jump of Aziraphale’s pulse on the side of his neck when he had been that close, could see the pure, innocent shine in the blues of his eyes. He could still feel the warmth of his skin under his cold, heartless, bony hands. He could feel the little hairs on Aziraphale’s legs standing up under his close attention. Oh God, he could still feel the way Aziraphale had let out a tiny breath when he’d allowed Crowley to climb up his thigh, the way his muscles relaxed a shade, how his legs had parted open just a bit wider. It was electric. For the first time in a long, long time Crowley thought about doing it all again, but in a very different context. With Aziraphale. With that beautiful stranger. Bright, blue eyes looking down at him through his thick lashes, like he had just minutes ago.

 _Get it together, Crowley_. _He’s a stranger. He’s just some man. And you hate him. He works for them. The ones who took everything from you. He’s just like them. Probably._

Somehow, he really doubted that. Aziraphale was different. He just knew. He was different, somehow.

_Get a grip, Crowley. Just get this over with, go on._

He took his hand away from the door handle temporarily to push his glasses up tight against his face, and then turned the handle and once more stepped inside the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay a couple things,  
> 1 forgot to say in the last chapter but the ship is called the S.S. Mary because the owner of The Bentley used in the show has announced that the name of the bentley is mary and i wanted to pay my respects to that beautiful car. Also because the bentley *ships* them hahahahha get it  
> 2i wish i could show you all the picture in my mind of the dagger it’s quite beautiful :( if anyone would like to illustrate it i would be FOREVER grateful in fact if anyone has any related artwork or anything PLEASE for the love of god tag me on tumblr (@alwayscomewhenyoucall) or on ao3 or something i would love to see it!!!  
> 3 chapter title is a reference to pale blue eyes, velvet underground. bebop  
> 4 as always, please bug me in the comments and on tumblr, send me pirate good omens inspo, tell me your life story, idc come bug me. and i read and treasure each and every comment, truly. thank you :')


	6. a deal's a deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they finally have a conversation, and ofc they're instantly besties & also dangerously smitten. a deal is made, and our angel finally gets some food in him, hallelujah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a second, i know, i know, i apologize. thank you for your continued support!! btw point is nothing makes me work faster than comments or kudos or messages to my tumblr so if you're feeling impatient, this would be your best way of making me work faster lol. i have so much planned for this fic!! thinking maybe 30 chapters at this rate? there is a lot i think y'all will like. anyway thanks again. love you all v much.
> 
> ALSO thanks to @eveningstarcatcher on tumblr for providing the name for the ship Aziraphale was navigator on!! writers block is real, thanks for saving my life <3

_Well. that was something._

When Crowley had stepped out of the room, Aziraphale had been left alone once again, but he was most definitely _not_ bored anymore. He had been left staring straight ahead at the space where Crowley had been standing just a minute ago before he abruptly left the room. His mind was racing just about as quickly as his heart was. Despite not actually having said or done anything, he felt breathless. That was, by far, the strangest interaction he’s had in a long time; _that was weird, right? Are all pirates like that?_

Aziraphale couldn’t shake the feeling that the interaction had felt... _electric_. Not intimidating, like he would have imagined a typical interrogation might have gone. He was nervous, yes, and he was scared at first of what the red-haired man would do to him, but strangely he had never really felt fear looking into the captain’s eyes. Well, into the glare of his dark glasses. _Why wear glasses indoors? Strange._

He sat there, mind reeling, for a minute or two, shell-shocked, before he realized that he could hear a conversation happening just behind the door. It was hard to make out the words through the heavy wooden door, but it was clear that the conversation was taking place very close-by. Another minute, and the door was swinging open again. 

“Angel,” Crowley announced loudly into the room. “I’ve got some questions for you.”

Aziraphale wondered what he had gone off to do that had been so urgent five minutes ago that could have been resolved so quickly.

Crowley took long, lazy strides into the room and stood between Aziraphale and a large desk in the middle of the room. He stopped, and looked at Aziraphale. “You seem awful calm about all this. Why is that?”

Aziraphale blinked once at him, and felt the silence draw out. Well. He couldn’t keep this silence up forever. 

“Well my crew left me already,” he answered. “Not much to do, now is there?”

“Hm,” Crowley answered carefully. “Have you encountered any pirates before?”

“Well, yes. Although not quite so...close up, I’d say,” said Aziraphale, and his mind helpfully replayed the sensation of the captain’s hands running up his calves, his thighs, couldn’t help but start his heart racing again, couldn’t help but remember the flush on the captain’s face that he was sure mirrored his own.

By the look on Crowley’s face, he couldn’t help but remember it, too. At least, judging by the cherry-red tone his face had suddenly taken on. Aziraphale felt a sudden fondness at noticing the captain’s blush, and just caught himself in the middle of a shy smile before he remembered where he was and quickly ducked down his face to hide it.

Crowley, bravely, continued on. “Well, you work for the Royals, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“ _And_ ,” said Crowley, drawing out the sound, “what did you do? Who are you? Why are you here?” He sounded a bit exasperated.

“Well, I already told you my name is Aziraphale. I’m navigator on the S.S. Eden of the Royal Navy.” He spoke with a practiced formality, like he’d memorized the company line and was used to repeating again and again. After a beat, he added in a quiet voice, “I’m not sure why I’m here.”

Crowley had been watching him with furrowed brows, but softened his gaze at the quiet tone Aziraphale had taken. He leaned back to sit on the desk behind him and leaned heavily onto it. “I’m not sure why you’re here either, honestly. Why did your crew leave you behind? Navigators are hard to come by these days, you know.”

“I know,” answered Aziraphale. “To be quite honest, I don’t think they’ll really…” he paused, and Crowley noticed his face twist into something sad, just for a moment, and then return to a blank expression quickly. It seemed a practiced action. “They must have been unable to wait for me. We didn’t expect pirates on the route, we weren’t prepared for a fight. I guess...they had to weigh their options.”

Crowley pouted dramatically at that. “And that didn’t include you, then?”

A beat. “Guess not.”

Crowley lost the pout and seemed to seriously consider Aziraphale’s situation. He frowned deeply behind his glasses. “Sorry, angel.” He said it so sadly, so casually, it felt intimate. Aziraphale could feel the genuine disappointment in Crowley’s voice. It was strange that a pirate he’d just met seemed to have more compassion for him than his own crewmates, but it’s not like they ever really liked him anyway. More like tolerated him. Left him alone most of the time. It was nice. He navigated for the Royals, and then could do what he liked for the rest of his time. He could read. He could afford fancy treats. And he wouldn’t be bothered. It was nice, sure. But he forgot what it was like for people to actually care about him. It was...strange. 

But the pirate didn’t care for him. Of course not. He’d just met him. And he was a _pirate_. This was all some joke, he was sure. 

“Thank you, um…” He paused awkwardly.

“Crowley. Um, Captain Crowley. You can call me Captain. Cap.” He nodded harshly, if only to stop the babbling.

“Then thank you...Captain.” Aziraphale liked the name Crowley, but figured it was too informal for the man who was currently holding him captive and that also happened to be the most notorious sea captain pirate on this side of the hemisphere. “So, what now?”

Crowley leaned further back on the desk to consider this. He murmured, mostly to himself, “Yesss, what now?”

Aziraphale watched his sinuous figure stretch over the desk. Crowley moved so fluidly, it was like his body settled impossibly on top of every surface he liked; it molded like liquid to anything, the floor, the desk, the oxygen around him. It was snake-like, and seductive. 

Crowley suddenly clapped his hands together and snapped Aziraphale out of his reverence. “Well, you’re in luck, Angel! It turns out I’m currently in need of a navigator. I’m looking for...something.” He shifted his eyes away for a second. “And you’re gonna help me find it.”

“I most definitely will _not_.” He exclaimed. “To help you find what exactly? Something evil and pirate...y?”

“No, it’s not...it doesn’t matter. But listen,” and Crowley leaned forward conspiratorially, “You help me find this thing, yes? And I’ll take you wherever you like. Back to London, or wherever you’re from, whatever.”

“You’d take me back to London?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Aziraphale stopped to consider. He furrowed his brows impatiently. “Well---dear boy, how would I know that you’d keep your word and take me home?”

Crowley had been leaning forward in Aziraphale’s direction while he listened, but his body seemed to wince almost imperceptibly at the endearment. Aziraphale opened his mouth to apologize in the small, heavy silence that followed when he was interrupted.

“Of course you can trust me, Angel, c’mon. I wouldn’t lie to you.” And somehow, Aziraphale knew that was true. He could see it in the soft expression Crowley wore. In the soft tone he’d suddenly taken up that would disappear just as quickly as it had emerged. “You draw me a map to the thing I need, and meanwhile you navigate us back to London. We drop you off back to your cottage by the sea or whatever, I follow your map to...wherever, and we all go our merry ways. Win-win, right?”

Aziraphale was trying very hard not to see the logic in Crowley’s argument, but couldn’t help but agree it didn’t sound so bad, put like that. He also got the feeling that nothing could really sound that bad, if Crowley had said it. “And if I refuse?” He asked it out of curiosity to see what his other options were, but mostly just to delay accepting the terms just a bit longer.

“Then you starve in the cells until we dock somewhere, and rid of you then. If you’re still alive, that is.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he glanced nervously at the space where he imagined Crowley’s eyes would be. “Would you really?” He hated the way his voice broke just a bit.

Crowley slowly let out a soft breath. “No, Angel,” he admitted carefully, sensing there was something more fragile there that he wasn’t to play with, or examine too closely. “We wouldn’t starve you or anything. But we _would_ drop you off at the next dock, wherever that is. You’d be lost. And I’d have no map. So we’d both lose, see? Just think of it as...me giving you a lift. Anywhere you wanna go.”

Aziraphale leaned back onto his chair gently, almost forgetting his bound hands and feet, feeling like he was just having a chat with an old friend over a glass. He waited a couple seconds, just to watch Crowley squirm a bit. He really was so effortless, even when he was nervous and restless. “Alright. I’ll do it,” and before Crowley’s smile had grown too large, “ _But_ , you swear you’ll take me back? And not harm me in any way?”

“Deal,” Crowley beamed brightly, and Aziraphale noted absently in the back of his mind that his teeth were so sharp, they almost looked like fangs in the dim light of the cabin.

Aziraphale let out a harsh breath. “Fancy me, working with a pirate,” he wondered out loud. “Well, I’ll be damned.” 

He didn’t think it to be possible, but Crowley’s smile grew even more. “It’s not that bad, once you get used to it.” Aziraphale shot him a dangerous glance, and Crowley just leaned back and chuckled quietly to himself.

“Oi, Boss?” A voice came from behind the door, muffled but sounding quite young, Aziraphale thought.

“I’m _busy_ , Adam, what is it?” 

A boy, Adam, Aziraphale assumed, opened the door like he belonged there and strolled in pulling behind him a rolling cart that seemed about ten seconds away from collapsing entirely. Each pull of the cart made the mismatched hinges creak and shake dangerously. Atop the cart were several plates of food, steam slowly winding up off it into the cold cabin air. 

“I brought food, Cap. Hungry?”

“Alright. Leave it here.”

“Brought some for the prisoner, too, as _requested_.” He said it with a flourish, like he found great pleasure in pushing Crowley’s buttons.

Aziraphale twisted his head at that to look at Adam, and there was a gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been there since he’d arrived on the ship. “Oh, thank you, dear, that smells lovely.”

Adam looked strangely at Aziraphale, then at Crowley, who then gave Aziraphale a look that could be universally understood as _Shut Up, Angel_. He’d seen that look many times in his life, and took it as his cue to promptly click his mouth closed and twist his head back towards the Captain. 

“That will be all, Adam.”

Adam turned to close the door behind him and muttered almost unintelligibly, “ _Yes, Nanny._ ”

“ _Adam_ ,” Crowley called harshly after him just as the door was about to click shut, “One more thing.” Adam reluctantly pushed the door back open and half-stepped into the room again. “Tomorrow morning, Aziraphale will join you for daily duties. He’ll be helping you out from here on out. Teach him what he needs to know, and keep an eye on him.” 

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up and he opened his mouth to protest but no sound came out. Instead, it was Adam’s voice that rang out across the room. “Ughhh, _fine_. Aye aye, captain.” He sounded resigned, and didn’t seem to want to argue the point further. He dragged the heavy door closed, and Aziraphale heard his footsteps slowly recede from the door.

“ _Duties?_ You never said anything about working on the ship, that’s unfair,” Aziraphale said as soon as the door closed. 

“Yes, well, don’t make deals with pirates, Angel. Rule number one.”

Aziraphale grumbled, and he would never admit to having pouted then as well, just a bit, at the small betrayal he felt. And he also would never admit to having noticed how Crowley’s gaze had darted down to his mouth for a good, long second, and begrudgingly dragged it back up to look at his eyes.

“Well, now that that’s settled, let’s have dinner yeah? Can’t have you starving on my ship, now can I?” Crowley said matter-of-factly, and Aziraphale wondered for the tenth time just that evening how this could be the same man that was famed across oceans for his malice and cruelty, when so far he’d been nothing but...charming, and thoughtful. How strange.

“I’d love to join you for dinner, Captain, but I’m afraid I’m quite tied up at the moment.” Aziraphale glanced pointedly down at his bindings, and then back at Crowley.

“Ha ha, very funny, Angel.” Crowley stood up from his sprawled position on the desk, and reached over the side of it to grab a small knife from inside a small drawer on the other end. He bent down in front of Aziraphale to reach the bindings at his feet, and began to cut away at the rope there. 

“You’re not going to kill me as soon as I set you free, are you?” Crowley joked as he glanced up at Aziraphale, but he could hear the tinge of distrust hiding behind his words as he said them.

“No, dear, I won’t,” And again, Crowley seemed to wince at the soft _dear_ that Aziraphale so freely offered. “A deal’s a deal.”

Crowley had stopped cutting at the bindings, and seemed to realize this with a sharp nod and forced his head back down to continue slicing at the ropes. Crowley worked in silence, and once he had finished freeing both ankles he glanced up and started working on the bindings round his wrists in the same silence. He was careful to avoid getting the blade anywhere near his wrists, and once when he accidentally got too close to grazing skin he stopped and rubbed a thumb softly over the skin he thought he’d scraped. It was reverential, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but sigh at the overwhelmingly soft touch. Crowley’s skin was rough, darkened to a heavenly hue by years of sun, and calloused and dry from hard work and labor. But Aziraphale still felt the softness underneath, the care he took in such a small act. Crowley didn’t seem to notice he’d done it, but Aziraphale’s heart clenched at the action. 

Finally, all the bindings had been cut loose. “There we are, then. Hungry, Angel?”

“Oh, _starving_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello side note, i REALLY wanted to give y'all a new chapter so i posted this without checking too thoroughly for errors, if there are any typos or anything i deeply apologize, i'll probably catch them tomorrow morning!  
> come bug me on tumblr or in the comments! love y'all. if i could personally go out and buy you each a drink or give you a hug.......i would


	7. soft. warm.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "i kneel into a dream where i am good & loved.   
> i am good.   
> i am loved.   
> my hands have made some good mistakes.   
> they can always make better ones."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made myself cry y'all.....sorry

Aziraphale stood slowly from the chair, the bindings falling to the floor around his feet. Crowley watched Aziraphale’s eyelids close slowly and twist his head around to fix a kink in his neck. It seemed to be more of an instinctual movement than one of actual discomfort, as he hadn’t really been tied up long enough to warrant any pains. To Crowley, it seemed more the movements of a bird stretching its wings wide; no matter how big the space, the bird will always resent the cage. 

He opened his eyes, and looked expectantly at Crowley. Crowley, in turn, quickly wiped the dopey smile off his face (when had that happened?) , and bowed dramatically forward, outstretching his hands towards the small table. “Right this way, prisoner.”

Aziraphale made his way over to the table that stood next to the desk, a rectangular dark wooden thing that looked barely used, but very ornate, in Crowley’s chambers. Crowley walked behind Aziraphale to reach at the cart that had been left close to the door. He glanced up in time to see Aziraphale hesitate for a second, then pull out a chair at the head of the table. 

Crowley looked back down quickly to avoid making eye contact; he already felt himself being way too weird. He had this habit of staring people down quite harshly, and most people tended not to like that. 

He’d sort of adopted it as his _thing_ these days, staring people down. It made people uncomfortable, and he sensed that it was one part of the reason why he’d been successful as Captain. He didn’t do it to be intimidating, but he could be quite scary if he liked and it made people listen to him. His stare was intense and hypnotic, or so he’d been told. 

However, that was with the glasses. With the glasses, he was just the right amount of intimidating and mysterious and cool. But without the glasses? He’d had enough experience in his past to know that they were far too ugly, too alarming to look at. It had truly terrified people. He missed seeing the world without the dark, black filter of the glasses; missed looking up at the stars and appreciating the colors of a lovely sunset without freaking people out. But no, he needed the glasses. No use dwelling on it. Especially now, with this stranger so easily skirting his defenses and intruding on his mind. He needed to stay on his toes.

Crowley grabbed a couple plates and balanced them on his arms, and carefully danced his way back to deposit them at Aziraphale’s spot on the table. He went back for the rest of the plates and grabbed some silverware off the cart as well, and dropped them ceremoniously on the table to display an array of warm, beautifully prepared food. There was a rotisserie-style chicken with brown, crispy skin dripping in butter; small, red potatoes sliced into pretty little cubes; ornate biscuits on china plates; it was absolutely lovely. 

Instead of sitting at the table, Crowley walked back to his desk and opened a small drawer towards the bottom. He pulled out a very large, very heavy bottle of rum. The brown liquid sloshed around dangerously in the bottle, and Crowley set it down in front of his seat at the table, and filled two glasses to the rim with it. 

He finally sat down with a loud scrape and a heavy sigh as he pulled his own chair out and allowed his body to settle around it comfortably. He sat at the other head of the table, opposite Aziraphale. The table wasn’t very large, but already he resented the distance. Now that he knew what Aziraphale’s skin felt like under his own...well. It was something he couldn’t help but feel drawn to again. He’d have to find some excuse to get close again.

“Does a Captain always eat like this? This is quite the spread,” said Aziraphale nervously. 

“Well no, but I like to make a good impression on my prisoners,” he joked. Crowley looked at Aziraphale and saw in his eyes a glint that hinted at absolute desire at such food before him, and yet he didn’t reach for any of it. “You can grab as much as you like, you know. Go on.” Crowley smiled at Aziraphale in what he hoped was something encouraging. It probably came out looking more predatory than anything.

Aziraphale looked up again, and seemed to fiddle with his hands. He had a gold band on his hand that he seemed to like to twirl when he got nervous. (Already, Crowley found himself cataloguing the Angel’s habits, his ticks, his movements. This was bad, he knew. And yet.)

“Something wrong, Angel?”

“It’s just…” he hesitated. “I don’t mean to be...rude. I’ll just...maybe---” he stumbled over his words.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, take some. Here,” and Crowley stood up with another loud scrape of his chair against the floor. He grabbed an empty plate and began piling everything haphazardly onto it, with no regard for what would actually fit on the plate or whether it would still look appetizing when he was done serving. Aziraphale’s eyes widened comically at Crowley’s brisk movements, but said nothing and watched with anticipation. Crowley took the now brimming plate and set it before Aziraphale and said, “There you are. Go on.”

Aziraphale craned his head to look up at Crowley once more as he stood before him, and seemed to make up his mind quite quickly about skipping the formalities and getting straight to the stuffing-your-face bit. 

For the most part, Aziraphale attempted to retain his proper British manners as he cut his food carefully into small slices before gulping it all down. Crowley watched in rapture at the way he swallowed everything down with a click, the way he dragged the tines of the fork slowly out of his mouth to get every last crumb, the way he’d suck his thumb into his mouth when he’d dropped some of his food onto his sleeve and then pull it out with a quiet smack of his lips. He wondered just how long it had actually been since the poor man had eaten like this.

“Do they feed you in London, Angel?” Crowley attempted to joke, impressed with both the finesse and grace of his eating partner and also the astounding rate at which he’d nearly cleared half his plate already.

At that, Aziraphale looked up seemingly out of a daze, and seemed suddenly shy. “Sorry,” he mumbled around a big bite of food he hadn’t finished chewing yet, and his cheeks turned a soft shade of pink. He swallowed thickly and added, “I think I got...carried away. My apologies.”

“Oh, no, no need to be sorry, Angel. Eat as much as you like, of course. I’m just,” and he felt a strong wave of shame come over him, “I’m sorry I said we’d’ve starved you in the cells. I didn’t...I didn’t know you were hungry. I wouldn’t---I would never---”

“It’s alright, dear. I didn’t…” he paused. “Thank you, Crowley.”

Crowley had ducked his head in a clearly shy, uncomfortable gesture, but cranked his head up pointedly to gape at Aziraphale, lips parting open just a bit. Aziraphale looked down at the soft way his thin lips opened for him, and then darted his eyes back up as his brain caught up.

“ _Captain_ , my goodness, I didn’t---I’m so sorry, I don’t know where my head’s at---”

“It’s alright,” Crowley breathed out, barely audible across the table. His instinct was to say something else to put Aziraphale at ease over having misspoken, he seemed so clearly embarrassed and shocked himself. He probably hadn’t even really meant to say that, Aziraphale had only just met him, he probably still wasn’t sure what to call him; it was harmless, really.

But, oh God, to hear his name from those glorious lips. He had said it so reverently, so full of love and affection. _Crowley_. Like they had known each other for years, like they’d been friends. Like they’d...like they’d been lovers. It was so _soft_. In all his life, Crowley had never heard anyone say his name like that. It was always with contempt, or hate, or disgust. It had never been a soft word. It was dark, and angled, and harsh like him. He’d been so grateful when he’d become Captain, because never again would he have to hear that word spoken with fear or dripping with hatred. Had any of his crewmates every called him by name, they’d immediately find themselves with a cold blade pressed against their throat. People knew not to say the name. Not to dare give that twisted, angled thing a name. But Aziraphale had. And oh, God, he was ruined forever.

Crowley sat there and stared across the table, and knew, suddenly, sadly, with all the weight of the world, and with all the knowledge that it could never be, that he was most definitely gone on Aziraphale.

He cleared his throat once, and then a second time. After a small, heavy silence filled with Aziraphale’s quiet panic and restlessness, Crowley said again, “It’s alright, Angel.” There. He had said it a bit more loudly now, and Aziraphale seemed to let a breath out that he didn’t know he’d been holding. Crowley cleared his throat again, just for good measure. “Rum?”

Aziraphale’s gaze shifted from staring at Crowley’s dark glasses to looking at his lips in confusion. After a second, he repeated dumbfoundedly, “Sorry, rum?” “Would---would you like some rum. Is what I meant. Rum, here.” Satan, he’d never be able to string together a coherent phrasing of words when he was around Aziraphale, would he. He pushed one of the very full glasses straight forward in Aziraphale’s direction.

“Oh, yes, quite, thank you...Captain.” He reached forward to grab the glass, and put it to his lips nervously. He took a big gulp of it seemingly without stopping to think, and then made a sour face as his tastebuds caught up to his brain. 

“Bit too strong for you, Angel?” 

“No, it’s...well, a bit, actually, sorry,” he apologized. “I’m just not used to drinking this, really.” He chanced a glance in Crowley’s direction. “Not that I don’t like it! It’s fine. Great, really.”

“What do you usually drink, then?” Crowley asked, eternally grateful for the change in topic. 

“Well, wine normally. I quite like wine,” said Aziraphale. “But we’re not really allowed---well, encouraged---to drink. The Royal Navy, I mean. It’s not...proper.”

“Well, pros to being captured on a pirate ship, Angel,” Crowley said, sensing an opportunity for temptation. “There’s nothing to do but drink.”

\-----

It had been several hours since they’d had dinner. Crowley had been feeling like every word out of his mouth had been a trainwreck since he’d laid his sinner’s eyes on that Angel. But thankfully, alcohol was always there for the rescue. Crowley had pulled out several bottles of wine from a secret compartment hidden underneath the floorboards under Crowley’s desks ( _“Are you sure it’s alright we’re drinking this, Captain?” “Oh, definitely. I’ve actually been meaning to make more room down there. I can get more, Angel, easy.”_ Crowley didn’t say that it had taken him years to amass his collection of bottles from different ports around the world. That no one else on Earth knew about this secret hiding spot, not his crewmates, not anybody. That he’d been saving it for some special occasion, for the day he’d finally be free of this life. But this felt like a special occasion. It felt like a new beginning. One he never thought he’d get.) 

Somehow, they had stumbled out onto the deck of the ship in the wee hours of the night. The entire ship had shut down for the night, crew all having long gone to sleep. The ship rocked softly in the moonlight, and the waves lapped at its sides gently.

“Sssso which one is that one, Angel?” Crowley was leaning over the railing at the far end of the ship, and he pointed up at a random stretch of stars.

Aziraphale tried to follow his gaze, but his eyes were already completely glazed over with drowsiness pulling at the frayed edges of his tired mind, the full satisfaction of a good warm meal after a long day, and the very, very heavy fog that the countless glasses of red wine had placed over his droopy eyelids. He was unapologetically very, very drunk.

“I think it’s….uh,” he hiccoughed, “I think that’s Ursa major? I can’t really see what you’re pointing at, dear.” They both dissolved into a fit of quiet giggles. They didn’t dare laugh too loud; the moment seemed too fragile to break, the world contained into the soft, quiet bubble of just the two of them, and the sea. The rest of the world be damned. 

“You’re really quite good at this, Azzziraphale,” Crowley drawled. “Quite the navigator. Can I call you Aziraphale?” he pressed his side deeper into the body next to him, both leaning dangerously over the railing, and holding each other up in their drunken haze. Even through the pleasant fog of alcohol, Crowley’s skin seared at the heat of Aziraphale’s body touching his. They were touching. They were touching. Such a simple thing.

“Yes, dear, you can call me Aziraphale,” he said. “But I like...I like it when you call me Angel.”

“Do you really?”

Aziraphale’s eyes continued to scan the skies above him. “Yes. It’s nice. And I’m not that good a navigator. I just know the big ones, you know. The landmarks.” Crowley turned to look at him, needing to pull back a bit to look at his face, they were so close. He scanned the side of his face, watching him. Aziraphale took no notice, as he scanned the skies above searching for more constellations to point out. 

“I like the stars, myself,” Crowley admitted. “They’re so...quiet. I’m no good at navigating, though. Not studied enough. Books aren’t really my thing.”

“Oh, I like books. I reeeeally like books,” Aziraphale drew out the words, and then chuckled at himself as his thoughts seemed to drift away to somewhere else for a moment. “Look, see that one right there?”

Crowley regrettably tore his gaze away from Aziraphale’s face and followed his finger to a single star in the distance. “Yeah, I see it. Whassssat?” he hissed.

“That one’s Alph---Alpha Centauri,” he struggled to enunciate the words, but spoke with conviction. “It’s actually two stars that orbit each other, but they’re so...so close and shine so brightly that they appear to be just one. Isn’t that lovely?” He turned to look at Crowley, but didn’t mind the distance between their faces, just mere inches between them. Crowley felt his hot breath tingle underneath his jaw, and he turned to look at Aziraphale. As he did that, he noticed suddenly how close they really were, noses almost touching. It was intoxicating. 

As Aziraphale had been speaking, he had developed a broad, passionate smile on his face as he spoke of his books and the stars, but now his mind seemed to come to the same conclusion that Crowley’s had just a moment ago, and he dipped his gaze low on his face, directly onto Crowley’s lips.

Aziraphale’s tongue dipped out shyly to lick his lips unconsciously. He dragged his eyes back up Crowley’s face slowly, like molasses, and Crowley swore he could see the same expression on Aziraphale’s face that had been there when he’s first laid eyes on his dinner. Of ravenous hunger. But it--? No, it wasn’t for him. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

Just as Crowley was convincing himself that Aziraphale was decidedly not thinking what he was thinking, he surged forward quickly and stopped his face abruptly just a breath away from Crowley’s. Crowley startled but fought the impulse to pull his head back. 

“Angel. What are you doing?” Crowley asked quietly. If he moved, if he breathed, his lips would be on Aziraphale’s. So he wouldn’t move. He wouldn’t breathe.

But Aziraphale would. Aziraphale’s eyes darted down his face one last time, then closed his eyes softly and leaned forward, just a hair. His soft, wet lips grazed at Crowley’s thin, dry ones, and Crowley surged forward. He parted his lips to breathe in Aziraphale, to feel his skin. Aziraphale opened his mouth in turn, and Crowley felt his wet, hot tongue graze his. That was what did it; that was what made Crowley pull back harshly, leaving Aziraphale to tumble forward at the loss of an anchor. Crowley reached forward back into Aziraphale’s space and caught him with both hands before he lost his balance too much and apologized. 

“I got you, Angel, sorry, are you alright?” He pulled Aziraphale’s face closer to his to inspect for damage.

“That was….wow. Just….” Aziraphale seemed dazed. “Lovely. Just….”

Crowley looked into Aziraphale’s eyes, and his heart broke. He searched deep in his wrecked soul and dragged the words out heavily from deep within. “You’re drunk, Angel. You don’t mean that.” Like a hammer against glass. Like a boat slowly being pulled under, dark and deep. “I should get you to bed.” Aziraphale closed his eyes softly, and a dopey smile drifted onto his face. Crowley felt like he’d been set on fire. Like he was drowning. Like he’d never, ever recover from the feel of Aziraphale’s lips against his. Like he would never admit to having wanted it so bad from the moment he’d rested eyes on Aziraphale. Like he could never, never tell Aziraphale that he wanted it. Like this wasn’t all a big mistake. A foolish, reckless dream of a foolish, reckless being. Crowley was evil. Wrong. Cursed. Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough.

Crowley swallowed thickly around a lump that had formed suddenly in his throat. It felt like being underwater and coughing out nothing but water. He straightened Aziraphale up and placed an arm around him to keep him upright as he guided him back towards the chambers of the ship. Just over the horizon, Crowley could see the barest shades of pink sunlight starting to color the sky in the distance. Soon it would be morning, and this will all have just been some lovely dream. He held Aziraphale’s hand, warm and soft, as they descended the small set of stairs to the chambers. He opened the door to an empty, warm room and pushed it open softly to avoid making noise and waking anyone up. He softly manoeuvred a very tipsy Angel into the room, and onto a warm, inviting bed, already piled high with soft, warm blankets. He delighted in the soft, warm skin beneath his, and delayed those last soft, warm moments of Aziraphale, soft, warm, pliant under his fingers. “Good night, Angel.” Soft. Warm. And then suddenly, cold. He took his hands back from Aziraphale’s body, and the Angel in turn gently let himself fall back onto a pile of blankets and pillows set for him. “Good night, Crowley.”

Crowley walked out of the room, and closed the door quietly once more. He stood there, for a moment, and collected himself. He missed the softness. He missed the warmth. But he was not warm, and soft, and he never was, and he never would be. He didn’t deserve it. So he screwed his eyes shut and attempted to cast that memory out of his mind. He straightened up tall, and he sobered up, and he pushed his glasses flush against his cold, hard face, and he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your comments make me so happy!!!!! thank you!!!!!   
> i channeled a lot of angst into this because i love angst. i'm sorry i know, but things will turn out alright in the end, i promise!! thank you for your messages and comments and for stalking me on tumblr, you all really make my heart melt. seriously. thank you. there are a lot of plot points that were hit in this chapter that will be explained further in later chapters or details that are easy to miss but will be referenced again later soooo stay tuned....  
> <3  
> p.s. i'm sorry for abusing commas in my writing... i write like i think, a constant stream of consciousness with no time for breathing in between, only small breaks NO STOPS. sorry lol  
> p.p.s i'm trying to make the chapters longer primarily because it's more satisfying to me but also because i've gotten comments asking me to make them longer. so if there's any other feedback or comments, tags i've missed, etc. pls lmk!!


	8. a crowley-shaped hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "i am a creature of grief, and dust, and bitter longings."  
> just more plot, + a lil angst because whoo boi i love me some angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOUR COMMENTS MAKE MY GD LIFE BRO THANK YOU. wow. seriously i am soooooo grateful for you all. i read all your comments and obsess over them the whole day after and then i'm just immediately planning out how quickly i can get the next chapter out in between school and work for y'all. thank you sm. you're all angels in my eyes, truly. thanks for stickin round.

“Wake _up_ already,” he heard loudly right above his head. Someone was grasping his shoulder tightly, and attempting to shake him to consciousness. Unfortunately, it was working.

Aziraphale shifted his arms to rest next to his head, currently smooshed comfortably against the cool pillow, and used his hands as leverage to lift his head up away from the euphoria of deep sleep. He blinked bleary eyes at the intruder and scrunched his face at the sunlight just barely streaming into the room. “Sorry?” he said in a voice that sounded like gravel.

“It’s time to start the rounds, prisoner. Remember? Cap told me to teach you how to do stuff.” Aziraphale’s mind slowly started back up, and recognized the young man before him to be Adam. 

“What time is it?” He asked.

“Early. Now come on. Lots to do, prisoner,” replied Adam. He sounded annoyed already. Who knows how long it had actually taken to wake Aziraphale up.

Aziraphale sat up in bed slowly, and looked around him. “Is this my room?”

“Um, yeah, I guess. Cap didn’t put you here?” Adam asked.

Aziraphale vaguely remembered long, red curls and warm hands guiding him...somewhere. Here, he guessed. 

It had been years since he’d drank like that. Although he didn’t remember a large part of the evening, his liver definitely seemed to remember. And his head. And his stomach. Aziraphale had never really been one to be seasick, but it seemed like today his body would like to take that feeling out for a test drive. 

Once he was sitting up, he began to feel the full effects of whatever he’d drank last night. His head was pounding, and he suppressed the feeling in his stomach that lurched at the sudden change into verticality. There was something at the pit of his stomach, too, not a physical feeling. Like a rock that sat at the bottom of his stomach. Something he...said? Or did. Something from last night. But it hurt too much to think right now. He’d table it, and try again later. Seems there are other things the world demands of him at the moment.

He swung his legs around gently and planted his feet on the floor. He was wearing thick ankle-high socks but instead of the crisp white color they used to be once, they already had begun to take on a dark charcoal color on the bottoms from shuffling in dirty shoes and on dirty floors, and they were itchy from having been submerged in water and then dried one time too many in the past couple days. That tended to happen often when you lived on a boat, but normally Aziraphale had other pairs to switch to. He realized as he stared down at his dirty feet that he really had nothing here, nothing but the clothes on his back. Not even his pocket-knife anymore. He missed the solid weight of it against his body, however small and inconsequential it had been. Years of carrying it pressed against his thigh, and now gone.

“Oh, right,” Adam said, pulling Aziraphale out of his head, “There are extra shirts and things somewhere. I’ll go get some for you. Wait here.”

Adam walked out quickly, light on his feet. Aziraphale still couldn’t figure out how old he was. He looked like he could be anywhere from 12 to 20; he hoped it was closer to the latter. Though that was still quite young for living a life of crime, right? Before Aziraphale had even thought to move, Adam had come strolling back with a crumpled set of clothes in his hands. He stood up politely to grab the fabric out of Adam’s hands.

“This’ll have to do, for now,” the boy said. “I’ll ask Cap for clothes later.” He stared expectantly at Aziraphale. “Well? Go on.”

“Oh, um, could I meet you outside once I’ve changed?” Aziraphale asked nervously. Adam just rolled his eyes and walked away, closing the door behind him.

Aziraphale glanced at the ball of clothes in his arms and laid it out gently on the bed behind him, smoothing the wrinkles away as he went. It was a white (well, maybe it used to be white) long-sleeve, tunic-style shirt with two small cords that hung from either side around the neckline. It looked large enough to fit him, that was good. The pants were a similar lightweight material but they were a light tan color and they were tighter round the ankles, like elastic. There was a new pair of socks there for him as well.

He looked down at the clothes, and reminded himself to be grateful that he’d even gotten that much. He glanced back at the door to make sure it was indeed closed, and slowly peeled off his own dirty layers and replaced them with the new set he’d been provided with. He slipped his socks on slowly, and then his own shoes. He patted his hair down, a bit fluffy with the humidity and at a slight disarray from having slept on it, and stood to open the door. Adam was leaning heavily on the wall opposite the door.

“Um, Adam, is it?” Aziraphale asked tentatively.

“ _Finally_. Ready, prisoner?” 

Aziraphale wrung his hands at the doorway. “Well, I was actually hoping to, uh, take a bath soon? Um, when could I do that? Could I do that?” He felt strange asking, still not entirely sure if his captors were just extremely nice to all their prisoners or if he was considered more of a guest by force; but he hated the feel of the dirt and sweat and grime sitting on his skin and well, it’s what he was meant to do, right? Figure out how to live this new life? At least for a couple weeks, at the most. He could do this. He could.

“Baths are at night. I’ll show you around later. But we really should be getting to work now, Cap will be mad if he sees the ship isn’t ready for work, you know.” Aziraphale didn’t know. But he nodded dutifully anyway. He had never really had to concern himself with the dailies of living on a ship when he was with the Royals; everything was provided to him already: clothes, baths, food, everything. 

(Although there had only ever been enough food provided on those ships to feed half of Aziraphale; he’d been told several times by his superiors in increasingly direct ways to ‘ _lose the gut._ ’ He’d hated that. What was wrong with a little extra weight? But either he ate what little they gave him, or he didn’t eat at all. He tried to be grateful when they would, extremely occasionally, allow him a chance to roam around freely at some port they’d pulled into, and Aziraphale would sneak around and try a bit of everything. He’d had crepes in France one time, some delightful steak in a small town in England, and even sushi once, in a little fishing town. The sneaking around had definitely been worth it.) 

He had never wondered how the ship operated, and he had everything he needed at his beck and call. Anyway, he sequestered himself in his room mostly, planning voyages and tracing celestial maps for later use. Reading his books and keeping to himself, really. He’d never liked any of his shipmates anyway. Mostly because for some reason from the very beginning they had never seemed to like him, not really. But that was neither here nor there.

Adam had long left him at the door, promptly ending their conversation, and was already heading up the small set of stairs by the time Aziraphale had recovered from his train of thought. He lurched forward to catch up and fell into step behind Adam. He had already missed something, it seemed. 

“---and the rest of the crew sleeps here too. Cap’s quarters are straight down the hallway, but we’re not to disturb him unless it’s life or death so, don’t go in there.” Aziraphale thought of the way Adam had strolled in last night for dinner, and got the feeling that Crowley was less strict and harsh than he’d like to think he was. The thought made a spark of fondness light in Aziraphale’s chest. That’s new, he thinks. Is it?

“An’ every morning we wake up and clean the ship so the crew can work. Scrub the floors, inventory, pull up the nets, all that. Got it?” Adam turned to glance at Aziraphale as he led him across the deck. “Just do what I do, yeah? First, we clean.”

He led Aziraphale to a space to the sides of the ship and pulled out buckets of black, grimy water and handed them wordlessly to Aziraphale, who took them reluctantly. Adam pulled out two mops and a sponge. “Let’s get to it, then.”

They spent the morning like that, quietly working together across the ship. Aziraphale had bent to his knees and scrubbed the wood floors across the whole deck, and Adam had mopped behind him. They followed a set of stairs to the lower deck and counted inventory; cannons, ammo, nets, swords, all sorts of stuff. Although inventory for Adam didn’t really mean counting and recording, more so just collecting all the items and glancing at them before going ‘Yeah, looks about right, then,’ or ‘Where did those fencing swords go? ...Ah, there they are. Now we’re okay.’ 

After that, they’d gone back upstairs where he’d been hastily introduced to a majority of the crew. There was an older man with a deep, permanent grimace that went by Sergeant Shadwell, a young man that looked in a constant state of anguish that went by Newt, a sharp-nosed beautiful woman called Anathema ( _“Witch, we call her, really.” “Why’s that?” Aziraphale had asked. “She knows everything. She sees all,” Adam said ominously. “She’s smart.” He said with admiration, and finality._ ). There were other younger-looking people that went by Brian, Wensley, and Pepper that seemed to travel as a gang, joined at the hips. They also seemed to follow Adam’s lead, and apparently also had similar jobs on the ship: cooking and laundry and such. Seems the young ones were not fit for fighting or navigating a ship in the Captain’s eyes, something they seemed to resent a bit. There was also a lovely older woman who only went by Madame Tracy, though Aziraphale doubted that was her God-given name. Despite being in the hot, humid heat all day, her hair seemed always perfectly coiffed. They made a strange,motley crew of all sorts of people, not at all the sorts Aziraphale had imagined when he’s heard pirate stories as a child. He met lots of people that day, and the faces and names had all started to blur together. Other men, other women, other people that wordlessly worked on the ship, pulling ropes and arguing over compasses. 

But throughout it all, no sign of Crowley.

Aziraphale found that he missed him, a bit. If he was being honest. All sharp angles and witty jokes.

By the time the sun began to set on them, Aziraphale was a dirty, sweaty mess, tired and hungry. Adam had patiently taught him all afternoon, and seemed just as tired as he was. 

“Well, I think that’s everything, prisoner. Now, we eat,” Adam said triumphantly. “Hungry?”

“Yes, jolly good,” and Adam made a face at the phrase, “but I was hoping to take that bath now? If that’s alright?” He looked down at his trousers, blackened at the knees from kneeling so long, shirt soaked in seawater and sweat.

“Oh, yeah, sure. We’ll save you some dinner. You remember where the baths are, right prisoner?”

“Yes, Adam, thank you. Although I’d really rather you call me Aziraphale, you know,” he said with a pointed glance.

Adam smiled a crooked grin and looked at Aziraphale’s face. “You’re alright, you know that?” He chuckled and walked off towards the gang, who were waiting for him already with a plate of warm food. 

As hungry as he was, Aziraphale really figured he needed that bath more urgently than he needed food right now. Plus, he’d learned to eat sparingly, by force at least. He could survive one more hour. And his muscles were aching for some warm water to soak in.

He hadn’t really paid attention to where the baths were when Adam had explained it that morning, but he was able to find them easily enough, just across his bedchambers. There was a fireplace there too, already going, and he set water there in a nearby pot to heat up while he peeled off his dirty clothes. When the water was warm enough, he filled the bathtub and carefully slid his body into the bath, wincing a bit at the heat of the water on his cold, wet skin. He laid there, and thanked the Heavens that his hangover had been short-lived that day. He wouldn’t have lasted so long in the sun if he had had exactly one more drink the previous night, and was ever so thankful for that. 

He sat there, tense muscles easing with the warmth, thinking about Crowley. The Captain. Bits had slowly started to come back to him throughout the day, but he knew there were bits he might never recover. He remembered pointing at stars at some point, late at night. He remembered glasses of wine, and some sort of hidden space in Crowley’s room with dozens of fancy, unopened bottles. But mostly he remembered warmth...touch. He remembered feeling searing warmth at his side when Crowley had pressed against him. Hot breath against his jaw, for some reason. Maybe he fell at one point? Crowley’s arms had held him for a bit, he remembered that. It was confusing. 

He could feel the gaps in his recollection, but had nothing to do about it. No way to remember. Oh, well. He just hoped he hadn’t made a fool of himself last night. If he had done something embarrassing...well, Aziraphale just couldn’t bear Crowley looking at him differently after last night.

Oh, God.

Maybe he had done something. Or he had said something? And that’s why the Captain had been absent all day? Aziraphale felt that rock at the bottom of his stomach again, settling heavily. Oh, dear, what had he done. Suddenly, the hot water didn’t feel comforting and relaxing but suffocating and encompassing. He quickly finished scrubbing at his skin and stepped out of the bath, taking the dirty water out hastily, ready for the next person. He grabbed a towel that had been sitting nearby, and barely had enough space in his brain to hope it wasn’t too filthy. His mind was on a constant loop of _I did something, I must’ve, I did something bad. He hates me now. I’ve done something. Oh, God. What have I done?_

He tied the towel round his hips and shuffled across the hallway to his bedchambers. He pushed the door closed with his ankle and removed his towel quickly from around his soft hips. He pushed his legs stubbornly through the trousers he’d been given, ready to get dressed again and rush to Crowley to apologize for whatever he might have done. He was already formulating a hasty blanket apology in his mind, and pulled the waistband of the trousers round his soft hips. He’d apologize, and he’d hope that Crowley wouldn’t…

He turned around when he thought he heard something and saw Crowley standing at the doorway, hand still at the doorknob and mouth slightly agape.

They stared at each other, eyes wide, for a long second.

“Aziraphale, I---”

“Crowley, Captain, I mean----”

They stopped again and looked at each other, both at a loss for words.

“Aziraphale, I’m sorry, I didn’t--- I heard your door close and I knocked but you didn’t hear me so I---I didn’t see anything, it’s---” Crowley stumbled. “I shouldn’t have...I’m sorry. I, um. Adam told me you didn’t eat. I...brought you food.”

Aziraphale, in his shock, hadn’t even noticed the plate of food Crowley had been holding in his other hand. He looked at the plate of steaming food, and then back up to Crowley’s face. Crowley refused to move his eyes from their place staring at the space just above Aziraphale’s curly white hair. Aziraphale noticed this oddly, and then suddenly realized he was still dripping wet in nothing but trousers. His cheeks tinted pink with embarrassment at the discovery, and he shrugged his shoulders a bit in a feeble attempt to cover his body. ( _So much for not embarrassing yourself, Aziraphale_.) He grabbed at the towel on his bed, still wet, and held it to his chest. 

“Can I talk to you?” Aziraphale blurted out.

At that, Crowley chanced a glance down at Aziraphale’s eyes. It was strange to realize that Aziraphale could tell the movements of Crowley’s eyes even behind the glasses after knowing him for so little. Especially after Crowley apparently went through a lot of effort to ensure that no one would see through his guise. His mask. To Aziraphale, he was as easy to read as any book he’d ever encountered. You’ve just got to understand the language, and then the rest was easy. And he was starting to understand the language, he thought.

Crowley swallowed thickly and said, “Sure. Yeah.” He paused. “Okay.” Another pause, and another click from his throat. “N-now?”

“Well no, could I come to your room? And I’ll finish...dressing.”

“Yes. Please. Do that.” Crowley backed away harshly from the doorway, like the doorknob had burnt his hands. “Okay.” And he shuffled away.

Dear Lord.

Aziraphale was left staring at the space that Crowley had left in the air once again. He had a feeling that Crowley did that often, leaving quickly before anyone else could get a word in.

Aziraphale also wondered if everyone else felt the way he did when Crowley disappeared like that. Like there was suddenly a Crowley-shaped hole in the oxygen around him. Like he couldn’t breathe, because Crowley had taken the very air with him. 

He shook his head out of the daze, and pulled his shirt over his head. He pulled on his socks and headed out the door to Crowley’s open chambers. He braced himself and stood up tall, and walked through the doorway.

“Captain.” He started bravely.

Crowley, who had taken the opportunity to sit at his desk and was now hunched over, head in his hands, straightened his back like he’d been shocked harshly.

Aziraphale started again. “Captain. I…” He found he’d forgotten everything he had meant to say then. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re...what?” Crowley furrowed his brow.

“I...I can’t remember what I did last night, but I must have done something and...whatever it was I’m sorry. I had too much to drink, they don’t really let us drink, you see, and I...anyway, I didn’t mean to upset you and whatever it was, it was my fault and I’m sorry, I just…” Aziraphale watched Crowley’s face quickly turn from surprise to hurt, to confusion, and then sorrow, for some reason. He could tell all this from the way his mouth twisted and his eyes grew behind the glasses, and then fell darkly to his hands on the desk before him. Just as quickly as his face had displayed his every thought, he shut it all down and placed on his face instead a practiced mask of apathy.

“It’s alright, Angel---” he grimaced at the word that slipped out.. “---Aziraphale,” he seemed to force it out. “It’s alright, Aziraphale. It was nothing. Not important. It’s...it’s not your fault.”

“So I did do something?” Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide and his eyebrows pulled his face into something fearful.

“No, you didn’t---forget it, Angel.” Crowley waved his hand in dismissal, and cleared his throat softly. “How was today?”

Aziraphale stared blankly.

“Your duties? With Adam?” He questioned. “Everything alright?”

“Oh,” Right, right. Move on, Aziraphale. He doesn’t want to talk about it. “Yes, duties. It was...fine. Jolly good. Learned quite a bit, actually.” _I missed you_ , he wanted to say. _I don’t know why, but I did. Your crooked smile. Your long form. Your voice when you know, somehow, that I need something soft in that moment. And you never disappoint._

“Good. You’ll be doing that sometimes if they need extra help. Them. You know.” He stopped and studied his hands stretched in front of him. His head was ducked down as he spoke, almost to his chest. “But tomorrow I’ll need you to start working on those maps. So I can find my...thing. So you can...go home.” He spoke quietly, and he didn’t look up.

“Okay. Yes. I can do that,” replied Aziraphale. He stood awkwardly at the door, waiting for Crowley to say something else. He didn’t. He just kept looking at his hands. “So...shall I take my plate?”

Crowley looked up at that. “Yes, of course, Aziraphale. That’s yours. It might be cold now, I’m sorry. I could---”

“No, dear, it’s fine, really,” Aziraphale cut him off before he could stand and take the plate from him. “And you don’t have to call me Aziraphale, you know,” he said hesitantly, in an effort to lighten the mood. Crowley looked up at him, and his expression for some reason, was pleading. Asking him not to continue. “I don’t...it doesn’t bother me when you call me...Angel. It’s...nice.” The last words were barely whispered into the air. Aziraphale hated to hurt Crowley, and for some reason, this looked like it hurt him. He opened his mouth to say something, to shake that expression off Crowley’s face. But he couldn’t think of a damned thing to say. “I’m sorry,” he said anyway. What he was apologizing for, he didn’t know.

Crowley looked down harshly, and when he looked back up the look was off his face and he had that same old crooked smile back on, although it faltered a bit at the corners. “It’s nothing,” he breathed. And after a beat, “Stay. And have dinner with me. Yeah? And we’ll have a glass. I think you’ve earned it, after today.”

Aziraphale took the bait. “Oh, I really don’t think I should be drinking again, dear,” he joked, glad for the lighter change in atmosphere. “But I’ll have dinner with you, of course. Thank you, Crowley.”

“Of course,” he paused. “ _Angel_. Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okayokayokay so i see y'all's theories of what's going on in the comments and i SUPER LOVE reading them of COURSE but im afraid to spoil the story if i tell you whether you're right or wrong so i'll let y'all theorize without confirming anything...and we'll see if y'all get it before it happens.... ;-)   
> also the last time i typed out an emoji like that i was texting on T-9 in the 7th grade. that felt dirty. anyway.  
> comment or come bug me on tumblr!! i'm at @alwayscomewhenyoucall . you all are my favorite people for being here. i'm sending y'all all the best vibes. you keep me sane.


	9. fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crowley curses a bit. aziraphale listens to some music. crowley pines. and has self-esteem issues. don't we all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh i wanna come near, and give  
> every part of me;  
> but there’s blood on my hands,  
> and my lips are unclean.

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._

He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember any of it.

Fuck.

Crowley sat at the dining table across from Aziraphale, exactly in the same way they had sat there the night before. He looked up at Aziraphale through his dark glasses and watched his gorgeous features twist as he told some story about something that Adam had taught him that day. To be honest, he wasn’t listening to much of what Aziraphale had been saying, and had already been zoned out about five minutes from the conversation. Aziraphale hadn’t noticed yet.

It’s not that Crowley didn’t want to hear the story; it’s the fact that his brain couldn’t help but think one word over, and over, and over again.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._

He had woken up that morning with a slight hangover, but a complete recollection of the entire night. If he was being honest, it was...one of the best nights he’d had in a long time. For the first time he’d felt like he could share his life with someone. Like they were friends. And Crowley had told him about little things; life as a pirate. Sailing the seas. Being...lonely. Sometimes. There weren’t a lot of opportunities to make friends on the seas, you know. And here was this gorgeous, kind man...who listened to him. God, he really was so truly, deeply kind. And he actually wanted to know about his life; Aziraphale cared about him, for some reason. And Crowley, desperate bastard, had spilled everything. 

And then they’d kissed. 

Aziraphale had had an excuse. Of course he did. He was drunk off his ass, and it was Crowley’s fault for not noticing how much he’d actually had to drink already. He should have been taking care of him. And he hadn’t. And Aziraphale had drank too much. And he’d...fallen forward. That’s all. Lost his balance, probably. Lips parted. Soft, wet. But it was Crowley who had kissed back. Who had wanted it so bad that he didn’t stop to think that maybe this was wrong. That it was definitely wrong. That Aziraphale would never, never kiss Crowley with a clear head. That he probably hadn’t even seen Crowley there, just a warm body, and that if he had realized that it had been Crowley he’d been kissing, that he’d’ve retched. Or worse, that if he’d still had his pocket-knife that he would’ve stabbed him, right in the heart, for daring to touch such sacred skin. Crowley might’ve done it himself, actually, come to think of it. How presumptuous of him; how absolutely ridiculous of him to believe that a man like that could _ever_ want something like that with a _pirate_. 

Ridiculous. 

It had been wrong, he knew it. And he’d taken advantage of Aziraphale. And he’d liked it. Worse, he’d wanted it. And it was wrong. 

And still, Aziraphale had asked _him_ for forgiveness? Had apologized to _him_? After everything? And he’d taken it, of course. Because he’d take anything the Angel had to give him. Even something so convoluted as an apology he didn’t deserve. It was so wrong. And yet, here he was, having dinner with the man he’d taken advantage of. That didn’t even know what had happened.

And the Angel prattled on.

“So what about you then?” 

There were two empty glasses of wine on the table, two half-full ones, a plate that had been scraped clean, and one plate that sat in front of Crowley, hardly touched, food just moved around a bit round the edges.

“Hm?” Crowley hadn’t been listening at all, and had lost the thread of conversation in the midst of his self-pity.

“How did you end up here?”

“...here?” He repeated uselessly.

“On a...well, on a pirate ship, dear.” Aziraphale said curiously.

Crowley knew he didn’t know what he was asking, not really. He didn’t wanna know. He was just being polite. If he had known about Crowley, really known...well. 

“Bored. Had nothing else going on that day. Jumped on a ship. The end.” He didn’t wanna know. He didn’t. “Seconds?” Crowley said hurriedly instead, and gestured at the empty plate in front of Aziraphale. His brows had furrowed and wrinkled his forehead at the skirting of the question, but his face lit up again at the mention of food.

“No, dear, I think I’ve had enough for now. But,” he said in an accusatory tone, “You’ve barely touched yours. Are you alright?” Curse him for being soft, for being kind. “You’ve been a bit...quiet.”

“Yes, fine,” he said in an exasperated tone. “Not hungry.”

They sat there quietly. It felt like a dead end. Crowley could feel Aziraphale treading around him carefully, cautious not to say anything wrong, trying not to scare him away. Like walking on eggshells. Afraid to break something. And yet he was trying, Crowley knew, trying to be friends, trying to say something that would bring Crowley back to the surface instead of wherever he currently was, drowning. 

Crowley refused to budge.

Aziraphale fiddled with the fork on his plate. 

“Well, I guess…” he started.

“Yes, alright---”

“Is that a gramophone?” Aziraphale blurted out before Crowley could finish his sentence. He appeared to be looking off to the side of Crowley’s head, at a machine covered in dust pushed against the wall inelegantly. 

Crowley turned his head around to follow Aziraphale’s gaze and saw the brass thing sitting there. Crowley glared at it dangerously.

“Oh, _that_ thing,” he said accusingly. “I...stole it,” and as the words were leaving his mouth, he realized he probably shouldn’t have said that; he glanced at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eyes and was afraid he might’ve seen hate there. But he should’ve known, of course. He saw the Angel make a face, but, curiously, it resembled more of a fond scolding expression than one of hate or judgement. Strange. “---Um, off a Royal ship some time ago. But I don’t know how it works, really. It’s worthless. And worse, I can’t rid of it now; nobody will buy it because it’s so clearly a Royal possession that people are afraid they’ll get caught and killed for having it. It’s deadweight, Angel.”

“Oh, can I try?” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up almost as much as they had when he had been presented with food. “I, well, I used to have one at home in London but it was old and fussy, and we aren’t really allowed music or...well or any personal belongings, really, on a Royal ship and I...I think they’re lovely machines,” he glanced nervously back and forth between Crowley’s face, the gramophone, and his empty plate. His voice always took on a guilty tone when he talked about the things he wasn’t ‘allowed’ to have when he was working for the Royals.

“Well, screw that,” said Crowley. A hurt expression flashed quickly on Aziraphale’s face, and Crowley continued quickly. “You shouldn’t need to be _allowed_ to do anything.” He paused. “Go on, mess with it, then.” And oh. Crowley would give him anything to see that broad smile. Anything.

Aziraphale flashed that big smile, and his sparkly eyes crinkled deeply at the corners before he seemed to remember himself, and tried to control his face into something more appropriate. He picked up the delicate white cloth napkin and dabbed it to the corners of his mouth and stood slowly. (And that act alone, that proper etiquette with that mischievous, gluttonous glance...he’d have to go back to that later and analyze why exactly it made his blood tingle and surge underneath his skin. 

Actually, come to think of it, he knew exactly why it made his blood tingle. And he would definitely _not_ be going back to that. No.)

As he walked over to the space behind Crowley’s seat, Crowley stood from his own chair and leaned against the table to watch him bend over the gramophone, currently placed on an old wooden table, and pull it out away from the wall. Crowley often found that he needed to hold something---the table, the wall, his trousers clenched hard between his fists underneath the table, fingernails curved sharply against his own palm---whenever he was looking at Aziraphale, lest he lose his grip with reality. Or worse, if he wasn’t careful he thought he might just reach over unconsciously to graze Aziraphale’s skin with his cold fingertips and chase after that warmth he knew lay under thin, thin layers of fabric.

“So you take the record, right? You’ve only got one, that’s alright, you just might tire of it soon,” Aziraphale started, not really looking at Crowley but more talking to himself loudly so Crowley could hear. He fussed over the apparatus carefully and touched everything with such delicacy, just ghosting over everything with the tips of his fingers. “So you put it here, and then you take this lever on the side and turn it like so…” and he spun a crank on the side of the gramophone until it stopped, “and you switch it here...that makes the record spin, see...and then you just…” He grabbed the needle and set it just above the spinning record and dropped it gracefully onto the grooves of the disc. Suddenly there were soft melodies intermingling with harsh, static sounds ringing throughout the room, which strangely felt much smaller and much warmer in that moment than Crowley had ever remembered it to be. He couldn’t breathe.

The Angel looked up with a flash of a smile right at Crowley, excitement clear on his face. Then he stood up a bit straighter and pushed his shoulders down, seeming to relax a bit, and closed his eyes slowly to soak up the sounds that floated through the air.

It took him all of one second to decide. Crowley took the opportunity, now that Aziraphale’s eyes were closed, to do something daring; something he’d been dreaming about doing since that very first meeting. He didn’t think twice about it, he didn’t have time; he just reached his hand up and pushed his dark glasses down just a half-inch or so. Just enough to be able to look at Aziraphale, unfiltered, if he just tilted his head down a bit. It was the first time he’d ever looked at Aziraphale’s pale skin without the dark shades between them. 

There was so much damn skin. 

Miles of it; skin stretching over his neck and down to a hint of shoulder, just a tease of collarbone. Skin where his white sleeves were pushed up and Crowley could just see the green-ish blue veins that flowed underneath his wrists. Uncalloused hands and clean fingernails. Unmarked cheekbones, and black eyelashes, and fluffy downy-white curls. Crowley got the urge to walk the three steps over to him and ghost his lips over satin eyelids, to run bony fingers through velvety white hair. 

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t breathe.

And at the same time, it was like he’d never taken a breath before this moment; like that first sharp intake of breath you take at the top of a mountain where the air is hard and cold and sharp and it almost hurts, you think you’ve never had so much oxygen in your lungs before; like you had never really been awake and alive and breathing before that very moment.

He felt like a snake basking under a dry, hot sun, soaking up every second he could of Aziraphale, in all his brilliant shades and movements. He thought he could do this every evening, forever if it had been allowed. If Aziraphale would have allowed it.

He took a deeper breath than he’d taken in years, and he thought to himself, 

_You’re it. You’re it for me._

_This is as good as it gets._

_This is as good as it’ll ever get._

But in just mere moments, what felt like seconds to Crowley but was probably closer to a minute or two, Aziraphale made to open his eyes and look at Crowley to make sure he was still listening, and Crowley tilted his head way up and shoved his glasses back flush against his face, so hard it almost pricked the inner corners of his eyes and made them water a bit. He blinked back the pain angrily. At Aziraphale’s look, Crowley nodded and made a face of consideration, like he’d just been innocently listening to the song that whole time, and decidedly _not_ painfully aching for the enemy before him. “It’s good, very nice, Angel.”

Something in Aziraphale's smile faltered, and he looked down at his hands atop the gramophone. The song’s tunes began to dim slowly, signalling the end of a song, and Aziraphale took the opportunity to lift the needle from atop the disc. He opened his mouth like he was gonna say something (and Crowley had a strong suspicion that the words would have been _I’m sorry_ ), and closed it. He opened it again to say, “Well. That was lovely, thank you for...letting me. I, um. I should be...heading to bed, now, I think.”

“Yes, okay,” Crowley said. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Thank--thank you, Angel. That really was...nice.” It was hard for Crowley to say things, to say nice things, to say what he meant sometimes. But he forced it out, if only to make sure that Aziraphale didn’t feel like he was overstepping somehow.

And Aziraphale, somehow, could see that. And he took it with open arms.

He smiled a small shy smile and said, “Good night, Crowley.”

Crowley swallowed around something thick in his throat and said, “Good night, Angel.”

Aziraphale strolled out of the room quietly, picking up his dirty plate before he left and depositing it at a small cart by the table. He looked up one last time and smiled that same smile just before he closed the door with a soft click.

See, you have to understand this about Crowley. He was a careful, anxious, cautious creature. He always had a plan, always had a plan B and a plan Z. He was more snake-like than he’d like to admit, whether that was something that happened before or after, he couldn’t tell. He suspected it was before. 

He stroked the black snake tattoo that ran up the side of his left cheekbone, and knew that at this point it should have been faded and blurred at the edges after years of sun and sweat and just age, but it hadn’t. And it never would. Crisp and sharp as the day he’d first gotten it. He knew it was a phantom feeling, but he swore he could feel the scarred outline of it seared into his skin, the red-hot swollen imagined ache of it any time he got too close to somebody good and honest and clean, a reminder that he was cursed, that he was Not Good.

He had built an image over time in the minds of all the people who’d look at him: one of anger and sharp wit; of a quick strike of fangs, of colorful slimy displays of _warning, don’t touch. Don’t look._

He’d convinced entire armies and countries that he alone was responsible for some of the biggest and worst things that the pirates had done to the Royal Army. And some of it had been true, to a small extent. Most of it had not, but it had definitely earned him his reputation anyway, and it kept people from messing with him and his crew. He liked to be left alone.

But true to his serpentine nature, he’d much rather hide under rocks, stay out of people’s business, alone, secluded. He hadn’t meant it to turn out like this, he really hadn’t---but all it had taken was one mistake, wrong place, wrong time, and now...well. He guessed it was better this way, anyway. You can only pretend to be a bad person for so long before it starts to wear off on you; and now he was convinced he could never be Good again, it was much too late. Too much had happened. Unforgivable, he was. And that was okay; he’d come to terms with that years ago.

And then came the Angel. 

Damned thing.

Crowley felt a magnetism he hadn’t felt in years, a longing to know and understand. To touch. To feel. In fact, it was stronger than anything he’d ever felt before, so different in every way. And he knew it was wrong.

Yes, it was wrong because he was a Royal, an enacter of Holy Law by decree. The enemy. And Crowley was a pirate, a scoundrel, a thief. The enemy. 

But if that had been the extent of it, maybe Crowley would have enjoyed the delicious task of tempting a Royal onto his own malevolent side. He’d done it before, tempting captured Royals into betraying their creed and joining the Hellions instead. And some of his best crewmates had arisen from this fate. It would be easy. It would be fun.

But this; this was not fun. Crowley had actually...felt something. He’d wanted him. He’d wanted Aziraphale. In so many ways. He wanted to hold, and soothe, and grip, and kiss, and moan, and love. And love. And he couldn’t want that. Aziraphale had no idea the things Crowley had done to get here; the things he’d seen. The things he was. 

Not that he was _evil_ per se. He didn’t think he was that bad, truth be told. But he wasn’t without blame. He’d caused chaos and mischief and discord everywhere he went. He never really got his hands dirty, but he always had a finger in it somehow. And someone, somewhere, a long time ago, had decided for him that he could only ever be bad. After that he’d learned, he’d heard it loud and clear: you can never change. You can never be different. And you can never be on the side of the Angels; you deserve to be here. Unforgivable, that’s what you are. And hey, who was he to argue?

And if he wanted to preserve Aziraphale’s image of him, then he would never let him find out. And so he could never get close, and he could never want him. 

And worse than everything, worse than it all, was that somehow Aziraphale could sense the inner conflict there and felt like it was _him_ , that he’d done something wrong, that it was his fault, somehow. And if there’s one thing Crowley vowed at that very moment to never do again it was to hurt Aziraphale.

So he had to forget about it.

Forget about it all.

He’s fine.

He feels nothing.

He could do that. He could feel nothing. He could make himself feel nothing, he did it all the time. He could do it again. For Aziraphale. 

For Aziraphale, he could.

Crowley cleared his throat, and set about clearing the table of dirty plates and stained wine glasses. He didn’t think about Aziraphale’s eyes. He blew out candles. He didn’t think about Aziraphale’s smile. He tore off his shirt and trousers, and laid his head gingerly on the pillow as he laid on the bed. He didn’t think about Aziraphale’s voice, humming along with soft tunes. He slid the glasses off his face and placed them next to him on the table. He didn’t think about Aziraphale’s skin, hot, pliant. He stared up at the wooden ceiling above his bed and his yellow, slitted eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness as he waited for sleep to come, probably in vain. And he didn’t think about Aziraphale. 

He didn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay first off I KNOW i’m so late i’m so sorry, i had so many things to do but the whole time i was like ‘but when am i gonna write?? I have to write!!!!!’ so know that every single one of you was on my mind these entire two weeks. additionally, i had actually written this chapter literally the day after i posted…..and then i hated it. hence, it has just been sitting there collecting dust and now i have finally rewritten it. ANYWAY excuses excuses, thanks for being here anyway. Truly :’)  
> \--also, it’s my birthday month!!!  
> -also also put your theories about what the heck happened to crowley in the comments...i'm curious to see what y'all are thinking lol. also thank you for all the lovely lovely lovely comments, and come bug me on tumblr too! @alwayscomewhenyoucall


	10. i wouldn't. you know that.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more plot, less angst. but still plenty of pining!! aziraphale gets some questions answered. crowley looks pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "oh my love,  
> i know i am a cold, cold man  
> quite slow to pay you compliments  
> or public displayed affections  
> but baby, don't you go over-analyze  
> no need to theorize;  
> i can put your doubts to rest."
> 
> yes, yes, you're welcome. i felt bad about missing a week and messing up my posting schedule, so here's a bonus chapter. until next week loves

Crowley had slept a solid four or five hours, tossing and turning, before he decided to just give up on that. Not that he slept very much usually, but today he had too much on his mind. Like not thinking about Aziraphale. Not at all.

He opened his eyes, frustrated, to see the same wooden ceiling he’d fallen asleep under what felt like mere minutes ago, except now it was tinted a slight pinkish hue. Very much like the hue it had been two nights ago, when he’d herded Aziraphale back to his room after they’d…

No.

He bit the inside of his cheek hard.

He sat up in bed, deciding that if he was gonna be up, at the very least he could be productive. He looked around the room, taking in his surroundings, and he resolved to do all the things he’d been putting off since the Angel’s arrival. He stumbled sleepily into his personal bathroom and splashed some clean, cold water onto his face. He glanced up into the mirror and saw pale yellow eyes staring back. He hated them.

He put some clean clothes on. A set much like Aziraphale’s, white long-sleeve tunic and tapered pants. But his pants were a dark, night black and he added a thick, black waistcoat on top of the shirt. He pulled on tall black boots and attached a holster for a sword to his hips. He decided, for now, to tie his hair back into a flowing French braid to keep it out of his face. Even tied back like that, the tips of his braid still tickled the bottom of his ribcage every time he walked.

He strolled out to his deck towards the back of the ship, used only by him and accessible only from this room, just opposite the front door to his cabin. He closed the door behind him and picked up a small, silver watering can. He had a large variety of verdant, green plants growing lusciously here where they could receive ample sunlight but still be protected from harsh winds. He was tough on them so they could be tough for the world. The world was unforgiving, and the minute you forgot it, it would chew you up and spit you out, no mercy. So he grimaced at his plants and spoke scathing, sharp admonishments to them, in the hopes that if anything ever happened to him and he couldn’t care for them anymore, that they’d survive without him just fine. But, those spoiled things, they still begged for clean water and fresh soil every now and then. And tough as he liked to pretend he was, he’d give it to them. _“But this is the last time, see? Think about growing a yellow leaf again and I’ll toss you overboard, no question. I will. Let’s see how you like salty seawater for breakfast.”_

By the time he’d finished watering his plants and headed back inside, it still must’ve been maybe an hour till dawn, and he’d gotten an idea. He’d had some books once upon a time, hadn’t he? Lord knows, they must be old and yellowed by now, if not wet and unreadable, but worth a try, he guessed. 

Two hours later, after upturning his entire cabin, he’d managed to find a small stack of hardcovers hidden in the crevices of his damned life. Just some old bound maps that might be helpful, one book on stars and things, a couple classics he’d picked up because they’d been appealing to him for whatever reason. (One had a long, black serpent on the front, and he carried an apple on his back; one had a black crow on the front, silent and ominous; one had cherubs and angels painted on the front. Not sure why he’d gotten them. Just things he’d picked up here and there.) He even had one old hardcover, pages all wrinkled and stiff from years on water, that had been boasted at the time as the only entirely correct book of prophecies on the market, they’d said. He’d liked the idea of being able to predict his future. He’d been disappointed; most prophecies were rambling and hard to decipher. So much for that, then.

As he stood from his place kneeling on the floor, he admired the small array of books arranged hastily over the bed. He nodded to himself, and at realizing he was sweaty and disheveled again, he took another quick bath before heading out and facing the crew. He couldn’t just hole up here forever to avoid Aziraphale, try as he might. He braced himself, and walked out.

And of course, the very second he stepped out of his cabin, Adam rushed over to him and spoke urgently. “Cap, where have you been? We’ve got bad news,”

Already, his morning was shot. He pulled a face, and asked angrily, “What bad news?”

“So inventory hasn’t been great recently, but we’re really approaching danger levels of food and stuff. We’re gonna need to figure something out, soon.” Crowley kept walking across the deck as he listened, watching everybody busy at work running their own errands on the ship. Nice to see nobody had been slacking off in his absence.

“So we need to pilfer? Steal? Commit some _thievery_ ,” and he drew out the word dramatically, “Is that what you’re saying, Adam?”

“Yeah. Soon.”

“Okay, then. I’ll have Aziraphale plan it out for us. I’m sure he has some insider knowledge that could be of use to us, right?” Crowley wondered aloud. “Have you seen him today?”

Adam gave him a suspicious look. “Yeah, he was up early this morning asking for paper and ink. Told him he could have whatever he found, don’t know what he’s up to.” He waited for further instructions.

Crowley considered this, and said, “Right. By the way, I think it’s time for laundry soon, don’t you think? And figure out how long we have until we run out of food, so we can plan it all out. And I need all the swords and things sharpened before we make the run.” He paused. “Well? Go on,” he added, already feeling like a Captain again, and not the soggy, love-sopped mess he’d become after just two days with Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale.

No.

He bit his cheek again. 

This time, it tasted of copper.

He turned back the way he had come and walked cautiously to Aziraphale’s room just next to Crowley’s cabin. Why had he placed him so close to his own cabin? It was just asking for trouble, Crowley knew.

This time, he rapped his fingers loudly on the door and waited patiently for an answer, rather than just bursting in. He wouldn’t be making that mistake again.

When he heard a muffled “Come in!” he twisted the door handle to find a room covered in scribbles and floating paper. There were maps attached to the walls with pieces of string and adhesive (where did he even find all this stuff?) and some sheets that Crowley had assumed had previously been attached to the door fluttered down slowly to the floor as he walked in.

“Uh, Aziraphale?” Crowley looked across the room to find the Angel with a crazed, excited sparkle in his eyes and a smudged line of black ink across his left temple, like he’d wiped at his face without realizing some time ago. It was in the same spot Crowley had his tattoo, he thought absentmindedly. Crowley couldn’t help but feel a tug at his heart at how endearing he was, how at home he suddenly looked, among papers and scrolls. 

“Ah, yes, good morning, Captain,” Aziraphale started. He seemed too excited to slow down his speech. He barely even looked up. “So I’ve been working all morning trying to locate our bearings, and I’ve got a system all set up, see this is the Atlantic right here, and…” He had started out loudly for Crowley to hear but had gradually lowered his voice until Crowley wasn’t sure if he’d been trying to explain the process to him or if he was merely talking to himself at that point, “...presuming that we’ve been at sea for three days---gosh, this would be easier if I had a compass or something of the sort, but no matter---” 

“Angel.” Crowley interrupted sharply. Aziraphale seemed to come out of a daze and looked up at Crowley. Crowley waited until Aziraphale took a breath, and said, “I’ve got one. Here.” He reached up into a pocket on his black waistcoat and pulled out a small golden compass. He walked trepidatiously over strewn papers and carefully arranged books to come close to Aziraphale, and dropped the compass into Aziraphale’s open hand.

“Oh. Thank you, Captain.” He answered quietly.

Aziraphale seemed to really look at Crowley for the first time, and Crowley couldn’t help but notice the way Aziraphale dragged his eyes all the way up his body, drinking him in like sharp, red wine. They lingered on the copper-colored braid swung over one shoulder, traced up his face to look at the gentle strands that had already come loose from the braid and framed Crowley’s face, tickling his chin and neck, and then the glance finally came to end at the space where Crowley’s eyes should have been, and instead were just black holes, dark glasses always a think barrier between the two.

Crowley bit his cheek again. Hard.

“I’ve got some other maps for you too, I found some old stuff in my cabin. I’ll bring them over, they might be newer than some of this stuff.” Crowley waited to see if Aziraphale would say something else, but suddenly he was too busy admiring the little golden thing he’d been handed, holding it like it was an artifact to be treasured. He ghosted fingers over the worn glass. 

Crowley stepped away slowly and went back to his room to quickly retrieve the stack of books he’d found for Aziraphale.

_No, not for Aziraphale; for the crew. To find the damned thing. To return Aziraphale home. Right._

He was quick and found Aziraphale in the same place as when he’d left, but as Crowley walked in again he set the compass down quickly on the table in the middle of the room and rushed to take the stack from Crowley.

“Oh, these are for me?” Aziraphale said excitedly.

_Yes, Angel, anything for you. Anything you like._

Their fingers brushed as the books transferred owners, and Aziraphale had a little unmistakeable glimmer in his eye.

“No,” Crowley said back, just because he didn’t know how to take that. He wouldn’t. “They’re maps and things. Don’t know what’s useful. Take what you like.” And he pushed his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose as soon as his hands were free. 

But if anyone had looked really, really closely, they’d see that there had been, just for a moment, a slight downturn at the corners of Crowley’s mouth as he fought back a little smile. Just the smallest little smile; a tiny reflection of the awed look and dazed smile that Aziraphale had on his own face.

Too much time had passed and Aziraphale had still said nothing, and he just kept looking at Crowley like that. Trying to look straight through the dark lenses. “Shut up,” Crowley bit back, because he was Crowley, and he had nothing better to say. He shoved his hands in his pockets and pushed his head down to stare at the floor. 

He couldn’t take that look. He couldn’t.

Aziraphale finally moved his eyes away from Crowley’s face, and looked down at the stack in his hands. “Oh, these are lovely, Crowley, thank you. I’m sure they’ll be...quite helpful.”

As he spoke, Crowley shifted nervously and made his way to the table with all the maps laid out on it. “Great, look, I’ve got a favor to ask.” He spoke at the map and not at Aziraphale, feigning a casual air.

“Oh, sure, what needs to be done?” Aziraphale said confidently, politely. So trusting.

“We’re running low on food. We need to get more.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows furrowed. “Oh--okay.” He waited.

“So we need to take down a Royal ship and take it. I need you to point us to the nearest ship. Any clue where that might be?” And he looked up. 

God, why did he look up?

And there it was. That look. But at least this look; this look Crowley could take. “ _What?_ Absolutely not, Crowley,” he said quickly, hurt and anger flashing on his face like lightning. “What---you’re asking me to _give_ you the route plans of Royals ships so that you can attack and _plunder_ them? No.” He said definitively. “I won’t. I may be your prisoner but I won’t let you kill anyone because of me. I’d rather die.”

“What? No, Angel, we’re not _killing_ anyone. I’m not personally up for killing anyone, okay?” He waved his hands around, attempting to explain. “We just---I mean how do you think we get our food? Lots of chicken and beef roaming around the seas now, are there? The nearest island isn’t for at _least_ a week or so, isn’t that right?” He watched as Aziraphale’s face went from anger to frustration, and then to defeat. “We’ve been stealing from the Royals for years now. Only when we have to. And we don’t hurt anyone, or we try not to. We just take what we need and get on until we can reach an island and stock up again. No one gets hurt. I wouldn’t.”

Aziraphale’s eyes skittered back and forth across Crowley’s face, like he was searching for the lie there. He looked over at the maps on the table, and Crowley knew that he was looking for any evidence that there wasn’t another way. There wasn’t. Aziraphale looked down at his hands and said quietly, “That’s not what they say about you.”

Crowley wasn’t expecting that. He knew Aziraphale had seen pirates before, and he thought it was probable that he’d heard of Crowley’s reputation. But he didn’t realize how much it would hurt to see that Aziraphale could really believe that of him. That Crowley could do the things they said about him. He couldn’t blame him, not really, they barely knew each other. But still, he couldn’t take the disappointment coming off of waves from the Angel.

“I know what they say,” Crowley started, after a beat. “It’s not true. Not...not all of it.” He struggled to find the right words. “I...I wouldn’t. You know that.” It was a strange sentiment, coming from a near stranger, but somehow Crowley knew that Aziraphale knew him. Really saw him. He’d know.

And something in Aziraphale’s face softened, but he kept looking down at his hands. He twisted the gold band around his ring finger slowly. 

“Ask me anything,” Crowley added quickly. “Ask me what you like. I’ll answer.”

Aziraphale looked up, wide-eyed.

Crowley waited, and pressed his lips together tightly.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, and closed it with a click.

Crowley waited.

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Crowley waited.

“So why do they say all those things about you?” Aziraphale ventured. “That you’re the most fearsome captain in the seas; that you plunder, and steal, and torture, and kill people for fun. That you...that you’ve started wars an’ that you’ve got a Kraken that you control and that eats people when they curse you? Where do those all come from?”

And wow, the Kraken thing was new. Okay. The rest was expected. “Some of that is...true. But not like you think,” he said quickly. “I do steal, when I need to. Sometimes, just...just for fun. Not a lot though. Sometimes people want to hurt me and I have to defend myself, and I hurt them. But I don’t like doing it. And I’ve never killed anyone. I wouldn’t. Really.” He stopped and caught his breath. He felt like there was a thin corn snake wrapped around his neck slowly tightening around his throat. He couldn’t breathe. He’d never cared what other people thought of him. But quite suddenly he found himself caring very, very much. “I like to cause...mischief. Chaos. With the Royals. I don’t like Royals, really. But I’ve never killed anyone. I’ve started wars, accidentally.” He took a deep breath, and kept going. “I take credit for things I didn’t do so people will leave us alone. Everyone on this ship is...under my protection, see. An’...I have to do right by them. If people believe I did all those awful things, they leave us all alone. I can take it. For them, you know.” He didn’t know why it was important for Aziraphale to know everything, but it was.

Maybe he wanted to stop lying to Aziraphale. Maybe he wanted to be redeemed in one person’s eyes...just one.

He continued. “I don’t have a Kraken,” he said with a crooked smile, “I wish I did. That’d be nice. Truth is, I’m not....I’m not...good. But I’m not a killer. I’m not...who they say I am.”

Aziraphale just stared for a long while.

“And if you tell anyone all this, I’ll kill you,” Crowley added after a minute with a big, fat grin on his face, and Aziraphale’s face lit up with a smile just as wide. He shook his head like he disapproved, but not really. He looked down again, still smiling softly, and looked at the new stack of books Crowley had given him resting on the table.

“Okay,” Aziraphale finally said. And he looked up at Crowley, just a ghost of a smile remaining on his face. “Okay. Let’s find us a Royal ship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i based crowley's hair off a post i just saw that was gorgeous and NOW I CAN'T FIND IT he's wearing a thick french braid with little flowers in it and he's kissing aziraphale's hand if anyone has seen it PLEASE let a girl know okay. i'll tag it here as soon as i find it!  
> SomEONE FOUND IT FOR ME thank you so much @izabella95, [here is the post!!!](https://lonicera-caprifolium.tumblr.com/post/190728838888)  
> also i'm glad to report that crowley has begin the Communication Procedure!!! this will still be a long road with many bumps buuuuut he's finally learning how to say things, i'm so proud of my little morons :')


	11. ruin me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we get ready to take down a ship, and we sadly do not get a wahoo. i won't say more, because i'm afraid i'll spoil things. also, why do i insist on making myself sad?? pfft sorry y'all get ready for Sad Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya girl's been going through it, and that means that self-care is a top priority right now. and since my current form of self-care is writing, you all get four chapters in one week lol. also......sorry in advance for all the everything

Two days had passed since that morning, and he still couldn’t get that little smile out of his head. 

Crowley knew it was dangerous, dangerous to believe, dangerous even to ponder, but that little smile had made Crowley think that maybe...maybe Aziraphale liked him, too. Crowley never, ever would have thought that a Royal could ever coexist with him, much less that one could ever _like_ him, genuinely; but here he was, damned Angel, being kind, and listening to his stories, and drinking wine with him in the afternoons, and joking around with him like they’d been friends since the beginning of time. 

Sometimes he even caught a glimpse in Aziraphale’s eyes of...want. Desire. Hunger. Of course, Aziraphale didn’t want him, though, not like Crowley hoped they could ever want each other. Crowley knew he had an air about him that was often flirty or over-confident, and Aziraphale was probably just reacting to that. That’s what that was about, he was sure. All just a game, it was their thing, see. Crowley could do that. He could pretend that Aziraphale really cared for him, really...wanted him. If only in a daydream. 

He knew it wasn’t true. It couldn't be true. And that’s okay. This...he never would have dreamed he’d have even this, in his wildest dreams. 

Once he had thought it; once he had glimpsed at Aziraphale and thought, _You’re it for me_ , he knew there would never be anyone like him, ever again, and he’d take him in whatever way Aziraphale could give. And if Aziraphale could only ever give him friendship and a playful flirtation here and there, then damn if he wasn’t the luckiest man in the world. He was giddy with it. High. All the wines in the world could never give him what one night conversing with Aziraphale, one glance, could give him. 

_He’s it for me._

Two days, and Aziraphale has successfully identified their bearings, located the routes of the closest Royal ship, and has planned out the entire takeover quite elegantly, actually. Crowley thought, in another life, Aziraphale might have been a good pirate; just enough of a bastard but also clever enough to find just the right amount of loopholes to insist he wasn’t actually doing wrong. _Well, I can’t very well allow all these people to starve, and I’m sure the Royals will have some food to spare, really; it’s just a forced donation, I’m sure they’d forgive us if they knew._

Whatever you say, Angel.

The sun had begun to set on the second day, and their plans were set in motion. This time tomorrow, they’d have a fresh arsenal of food, clothes, treasures ( _Ye ken we need more whiskey there, Cap,_ Sergeant Shadwell had supplied, and _Finally, some fresh tea!_ Madame Tracy had remarked gleefully.) Captain Crowley, bright red curls half tied up and half down, stood atop a staircase on the deck, looking down at his crew.

“Fellow _thieves_ ,” he started. “Listen up. Tomorrow morning, as you all well know, we plunder.” A cheer erupted. “We fight,” another cheer. “We _steal_ ,” and the crowd shouted. Crowley looked down, and he could see Aziraphale’s face shining like a beacon from the middle of the crew. He looked like a dream, soft tinted cheeks, all painted a soft golden yellow from the setting sun behind him. “Tomorrow we take what is rightfully ours. They took everything from us; tomorrow we take it back. I expect a good bounty tomorrow, and everyone knows their parts. All that’s left to do now, is drink.” And a hearty _Aye!_ roared out from the crew. 

“We have an honored guest tonight, our very own Angel, Aziraphale, who has graciously aided our navigating efforts with his expertise. Sorry, Anathema, but if there’s one thing you can’t predict for us, it’s Royal ship locations,” And while Anathema gave a look of _oh, well_ , Aziraphale glanced around, confused at having missed the joke. “Anyway, tonight we celebrate before the _massacre_ ,” he joked, “so bring out the good rum, and let’s get on with it then, show’s over.” Crowley stepped down the staircase and the crowd dispersed, leaving Aziraphale alone in the middle of the deck, waiting for Crowley.

Crowley sauntered up to him and said, “So, what’d you think of the speech?” 

“I think it went lovely, dear,” Aziraphale answered fondly, “although I did miss the ‘wahoo’ when you’d practiced it with me.” He smiled, and his eyes twinkled. Aziraphale really did look so lovely in this light. _‘Lovely’_ , ugh; Aziraphale was starting to rub off on him.

“Ah, it didn’t feel right. Anyway, it’s time to celebrate. Shall we, Angel?” And Crowley made an exaggerated bow with an extended hand leading towards the below-deck area.

“Um, what exactly are we doing now?” 

“We’re changing clothes, we can’t very well celebrate in our work clothes, this is a special occasion,” Crowley admonished. “Oh, and we need to fetch the gramophone, too.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale exclaimed, and brought his hands to his chest. God, Crowley couldn’t take it sometimes. Aziraphale really didn’t know how adorable he could be sometimes, even without meaning to. He was so genuine and unashamed; Crowley loved that about him.

“Yes, we’re bringing it out and we’re listening to the same record all night until even the whales grow tired of it. Deal?” And Aziraphale smiled that indulgent little smirk. He linked an arm through Crowley’s, and together they headed back to Crowley’s cabin.

And despite the countless hours they’d spent together now, the easy banter they’d grown to have, the comfortable friendship they’d established, and the flirty game they’d created and danced around for days now, Crowley still couldn’t help but hold his breath every time Aziraphale got close; couldn’t help but feel like his heart was about to jump out from his throat at the glances, the striking blue eyes connecting with his yellow, ugly, slitted ones from behind the glasses; couldn’t help but feel like his skin was searing and sizzling with every hot touch of Aziraphale’s skin to his, even through layers and layers of cloth. It was intoxicating. It was maddening.

They’d carefully carried the gramophone out to the deck a careful, frustrating dance of, _Aziraphale, watch it, you’re going to drop it_ ; and _Crowley, you’re going too fast for me, just hold_ on _, dear, really_. Then they’d separated to get dressed in their respective cabins. 

Crowley had stood in front of his mirror for a long time in his clothes before he dared to venture out. He’d picked it carefully; much like all his other outfits but instead of loose charcoal black garments, his clothes were now carefully tailored to his body, tighter in the legs and drapier in the torso. A midnight black shirt that plunged further down his neckline, and slim black linen pants that made him look quite refined, if he did say so himself. He might have even passed for a fancy waiter aboard a Royal ship, maybe, if he didn’t have his long, copper hair and face tattoo to give away his humble origins. 

He didn’t have his glasses on yet, here in the privacy of his room, and they stood out from his all-black ensemble like a neon warning sign. He’d keep his hair half-up, he decided, but he tried to comb back some frizzy loose bits that had come out of the back and now tickled at his cheekbones. As a final touch, although he knew no one would ever see it, he decided to grab some kohl, just a bit, and ran it lightly over the bottom edge of his eyelids. 

He smiled at his reflection, thinking he might have actually looked respectable for once, respectable enough for Aziraphale even, (only in his dreams, maybe, or rather, in a fantasy) and slid the glasses over his eyes once again. He gave himself a last once-over before leaving, and as a last minute action backtracked and reached into his desk drawer to retrieve the white little knife he’d confiscated from Aziraphale what seemed like years ago.

He tucked the little thing in his pocket, and sauntered out bravely onto the dock.

And immediately, he lost all his bravado. His breath rushed out of him all at once upon reaching the dock, and he stopped dead in his tracks.The sun had finally set and night had set upon them completely, and the whole deck was lit up by candles everywhere, giving the people all a soft, eerie glow. The stars shone bright like anything, casting a light all on their own, rivaling the moonlight in their brightness and splendor. The stars reflected onto the calm black waters, and it looked like they were swimming in the galaxies themselves. It was heavenly. 

But nothing could have prepared Crowley for the vision that awaited him. Straight from a fantasy, Aziraphale stood a long ways away, dancing happily with Anathema to the sound of the gramophone’s staticky, wretched sound. 

Everyone was drinking already, as it seems Crowley had taken his time getting ready and the crew had decided to begin without him. Aziraphale had his own drink in his hand too, and was balancing it precariously over Anathema’s shoulder, his other hand resting lightly on her waist as he spun her around. His cheeks were already tinted a deep pink that Crowley could see from all the way over here, whether it was from exertion or giddiness or drink, Crowley could only guess.

Aziraphale was wearing some fluffy white shirt Crowley had assumed someone had lent him, maybe Newt. It was fussy but fit Aziraphale so well, and it was almost translucent in the candlelight. He wore loose dark pants and shiny brown shoes. He looked so out of place from the rest of the crew, some not even bothering to change, most wearing simple dark pieces that were deemed special simply because they happened to be clean. And yet, there were several people watching him dance, people applauding him, people trying to copy his movements and others catching that dizzy, happy vibration he gave off and would clap him on the back or laugh along with him. He looked happy. He looked at home. 

Crowley just stayed there, just shy of really stepping onto the dock, and stuck his hands deep in his pockets. It was moments like these when Crowley had that achy feeling in his heart again, that tug, that he always felt when he remembered that he couldn’t have this. That Aziraphale was much too soft, too Good for him, and that eventually he’d have to give him back and this all will have been some fever dream that Crowley can live off of for the rest of his days until he dies a bloody, gruesome death. 

Crowley watched sadly, quietly, and tried to commit it all to memory, like a scene to preserve in a snowglobe. Aziraphale, happy, dancing, among friends, loved. Soft tunes floating through the air, candles flickering, the sound of soft waves lapping at wood just audible over the music, and the sharp, salty smell of seawater always wafting in the air. Breeze softly blowing strands of Crowley’s hair away from his face. He would dream of this night every night, forever, he knew. 

_You’re it for me._

“Boss!” Adam yelled right in his ear. “You got a drink yet?”

Trust Adam to ruin a moment. Well, it couldn’t last forever. 

Crowley would have to get used to that thought.

“No, Adam,” he bit out, more aggressively maybe than he strictly needed to, “I’ll get my own drink.” Adam scanned his face curiously, and then glanced at Aziraphale, and then back at Crowley. “Why don’t you tell him?”

Panic rose in Crowley’s chest. “Tell him what?”

Adam just stared.

“There’s nothing to tell him. He’s…” and Crowley didn’t really know how to finish that sentence. He swallowed. “I can’t.”

And for once, Adam didn’t push. Just said in that quiet, wise way he had sometimes, strange for his wild, childish nature, “Okay.” 

And he stood by his side for a moment, seeming to sense something fragile there, and then walked off. He approached the Them, who cheered excitedly at his approach and handed him a glass of something.

Crowley chanced another glance at Aziraphale, and he seemed to sense the look because he glanced up as well and caught Crowley’s eye. His face broke out into a huge smile, damn him, and he quickly shifted his head to look directly at Anathema, still loosely in his arms, and muttered something into her ear. She nodded, and Aziraphale stepped away from her and took her hand, only to bow deeply and then hurry away from her and through the crowd. 

“Crowley!” He shouted and waved, like Crowley hadn’t already seen him, been seeing him. “You’re here!” He sounded out of breath, and he panted a bit when he spoke. “You look...lovely.”

“You, as well, Angel,” And he spoke with too much fondness in his voice, too much love. _Careful, Crowley_. “Didn’t know you danced.”

“Oh, not really, there’s just one I learned a long time ago but it’s quite complex; the rest I just make up as I go, surely not too well, I imagine---”

“No, no, you were quite good out there, I saw you,” Crowley reassured.

“You did?” 

Crowley felt like his lungs were too small and there was not enough oxygen suddenly, like his heart was taking up too much space in his ribcage. He couldn’t talk anymore.

Instead, he did something stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“May I?” He extended his hand, palm up, toward Aziraphale, and he bowed until his back was almost parallel to the floor. Strands of hair fell around his shoulders to hang in the air between him and the ground. He’d kiss the floor at Aziraphale’s feet, if he asked it of him. He’d burn this whole ship down. He’d go to Hell and back for him. He would.

Aziraphale, for once, seemed speechless. A hesitant, gentle slide of skin against skin as Aziraphale placed his hand in Crowley’s. Crowley stood up, and led them to a deserted corner of the deck where they could dance alone. 

When Crowley stopped, he placed his body in front of Aziraphale’s, so close, that he could feel the Angel’s warmth coming off of him in waves. He placed a hand just over Aziraphale’s waist, but didn’t actually touch; only ghosted over the space there, respectfully, skin grazing fabric that shifted every time they moved. He took the hand he held in his own and brought it up high, and said, “Ready, Angel?”

Aziraphale didn’t look happy anymore; he looked scared.

He started swaying, gentle, barely enough to be called dancing, really. 

They couldn’t even hear the music, not over the roaring of blood surging through their ears, their pulses hammering, their brains going a mile a minute. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale started quietly. They were so close, all they had to do was breathe out the words, and the other would hear like a siren song.

“Yes?”

“I---” he stopped. Swallowed. Swallowed again. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Of course, Angel. Of course.”

They danced like that for a long time. Hours passed. Each time the record was flipped on the gramophone, they’d inched closer together until, by the end of the night, they were just cradling each other tight, swaying to a tune only they knew. 

Aziraphale turned his face into the crook of Crowley’s neck, and placed a soft kiss to the skin just under his jawline, just a graze of lips on warm skin. He could feel the sound Crowley made, not hear it, as it vibrated under his skin in his throat. 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley spoke with a question on his lips, and Aziraphale looked up. He was surprised to see that there was no one left on the deck, and that the gramophone had probably stopped playing a long time ago.

“Yes, Crowley?” He spoke quietly, anyway.

“If I was...would you---” He spoke urgently at first, but then seemed to think better of that line of thought. He tightened his grip around Aziraphale’s body, holding him safe and strong against his own rake-thin body. “I just...wanted to say that I...I’m glad. That you’re here. And I…” Crowley thought about Adam’s question, earlier. “I wish you could stay. Here. I do. And I---I know you’re only here because I...you’re my prisoner, technically, still, so...but I. I’m sorry for all of it. And I’m sorry for how people have treated you, before.” He took a deep breath, and let it out with a shudder. “I...I release you as my prisoner. You don’t have to...do anything...anymore. I’ll even take you back, now even, if you like. But I like you too much to keep you here against your will. Whatever you like, it’s yours.” 

Aziraphale had set his head back into the crook of Crowley’s neck as he spoke, and he breathed softly. It was a long while before he spoke. “And if I chose to leave right now? Just took a boat and left?” It sounded strained.

“...I’d gather your books. And grab a good jacket for you, then.” Didn’t he know? He’d do anything. His heart couldn’t break any more. He’d do anything.

At this, Aziraphale finally looked up from his spot in Crowley’s body, nosing at his jaw as he looked up. And Crowley watched as his face turned sad, so sad. And then he leaned forward, and pressed pleading lips onto Crowley’s.

Crowley, desperate bastard, kissed back.

It was all soft this time, this gentle press of skin, this warm embrace. His eyebrows knitted together as his eyes screwed shut. He moved a hand from Aziraphale’s back and cradled his jaw carefully, like he might break something.

And just as soon as they’d begun kissing, Crowley was gently pushing his face away with his hand at Aziraphale’s jaw as leverage. “This isn’t right,” he panted, eyes still screwed shut.

“Isn’t it?” 

“No, I...no. It’s...we can’t do this.”

“Why not?” he pleaded.

“Because...it’s not right. You’re...you. And…” He couldn’t finish that thought. Not even in his head. “You’ll be gone soon. You’ll ruin me,” he whispered into the tiny space between their mouths, and if his voice broke while he spoke the words, no one mentioned it. 

“What if...what if I didn’t go? Or what if you came with me? We could---” Aziraphale said animatedly, already formulating a plan in his mind.

And just as quickly, “No, Angel. I don’t think so. You don’t belong...here. Not...with me. Yeah?”

Aziraphale tried harder than he ever had to see through those dark lenses at the man beneath. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. “Right,” he mumbled. What else was there to say?

Aziraphale surged forward one last time, and took both his hands out from around Crowley’s waist, out of the cocoon they’d built for themselves here, and grabbed hard at Crowley’s face. He pressed his lips, open, hard against Crowley’s. Crowley clenched his hands around the fabric at Aziraphale’s shoulders, gripping for dear life. He parted his lips too and a moan was pushed out from somewhere deep in his body. 

Aziraphale took one of his hands and pushed it back to cradle Crowley’s neck and he clenched a fist around the hair there at the nape. At that tight pull, Crowley let out a deep moan and his hands tightened even more on his clothes in desperation, and suddenly Crowley’s resolve seemed to break. He’d been holding back it seemed, and at that he kissed back hard until it bent Aziraphale’s head back from the sheer strength in it. When Aziraphale opened his mouth even further to gasp in surprise, Crowley swallowed it with greed. He grazed gently at Aziraphale’s bottom lip with sharp teeth. 

_You’re it for me. You’ll ruin me._

Aziraphale eventually pulled back, reluctantly, and Crowley chased his lips without thinking. But slowly he released his death grip on the cloth at Aziraphale’s shoulders, and he straightened out his body from the curve of Aziraphale’s. He dropped his hands lamely at his sides, and simply said, panting, “Right.”

“Good night, Crowley.”

“Good night...Angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i specifically didn't say what song they're dancing to because i think that's up to you, but for reference i wrote this while listening to "i'll be seeing you" by billie holliday because it makes me feel like i'm someplace else, you know? does that song choice make sense in the time and context of the story? probably not, but also this is a fictional story based on a fictional show based off a fictional book sooooo i'm not super concerned about historical and/or logical accuracy here.   
> thanks for sticking with me y'all :)


	12. i've got you, i've got you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ughhhhhhhhh things happen, you won't like it SORRY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "i'll be seeing you  
> in every lovely summer's day;  
> in every thing that's light and gay,  
> i'll always think of you that way.  
> i'll find you  
> in the morning sun  
> and when the night is new.  
> i'll be looking at the moon,  
> but I'll be seeing You."

Light shone in through the window at a harsh angle, directly into Aziraphale’s eyes. He rubbed his eyes roughly with his knuckles, and had a blissful ten seconds of that morning nothing-ness, before your brain has time to catch up. He just sat there in bed and thought of nothing. 

It was lovely. 

But as his mind cleared through that deep sleepy fog, it came crashing back to him harshly. 

Copper hair.

Strong arms.

Black glasses.

Wet lips.

Crowley.

Crowley...wanted him. Could he? He did though, he had wanted him to stay.

And Aziraphale had wanted to. 

And yet...here they were. Miles and miles apart, pining for the things they couldn’t have. At least now it was in the open; but nothing had changed. In fact, it felt worse. This dance they had to twirl around now. How could Aziraphale ever look at Crowley again, knowing what his lips taste like? How warm the skin is below his jaw? How it feels to be wrapped in his arms? What he _smelled_ like? God, if anyone asked Aziraphale a thousand years from now to identify Crowley’s smell from a lineup of everything else in the world, he know he’d still be able to. He’d never, never get that smell out of his head.

 _God_ , the sounds he made.

Anyway. 

No use dwelling. They couldn’t. Crowley was right, even if Aziraphale didn’t want to accept it. If the Royals ever found out that he’d... _fraternized_ with a pirate...and not just any pirate. The Pirate. The one they thought was responsible for nearly every Angel failure on the seas. 

And worse, if they ever figured out that Aziraphale had helped them attack a Royal ship? Good Lord, he’d be...well he daren’t say it.

He looked out across the room and saw the disarray of maps he’d left around the room, papers strewn in a seemingly haphazard way. He knew the system there, of course. But Crowley had remarked, _Angel, is all this really necessary? How can you even know what’s what like this?_ , and he’d pick up a paper and set it across the table, just to make Aziraphale mad. _It’s all got a_ system _, Crowley, don’t touch anything._ And he’d chuckle and say, _Yeah, alright, alright._

Already, he missed him.

Best to forget it all, then. This wouldn’t do, the constant wishing and pining and wondering what could be. It would just ruin them both. Aziraphale would have to pretend everything was just as it had been. He could do that.

For Crowley, he could do that.

He got up from his warm bed and began to get ready for the day. By the looks of it, they should be approaching the Royal ship in about two hours, and everything had to be ready.

After some time, he’d finally got everything settled; he had put on a fresh, clean set of clothes (thanks to Adam, probably), he’d bathed and tried to tame his curly hair (always doomed to fail, but still worth a try), and he’d collected the maps he’d need along with the compass that Crowley had given him. He was ready.

He wasn’t very surprised to see that when he emerged from his cabin most of the crew was already up and rushing around the ship, preparing for what’s to come.

“Aziraphale!” He heard a familiar voice call out to him and as he glanced around, he saw Crowley, handsome as ever, waving at him from atop some stairs with a big, fat grin on his face.

Aziraphale stood there for a good few seconds after, just admiring the view. A happy, smiling Crowley. Such a rare sight. A little smile grew on Aziraphale’s face; if he could wake up to this every morning…

Crowley gave him a confused look at the delay and continued to wave him over, and Aziraphale took pity on him. He walked across the ship and up some stairs to Crowley and Anathema huddled over some items spread around a table.

“We just need you to look at it one last time and make sure everything’s accounted for,” Crowley began once Aziraphale was close enough to hear. “Not that we don’t trust you, of course---”

“But everything has to be perfect. This is risky as is,” Anathema jumped in. “You’re sure this is just a minor freight ship, right?”

Aziraphale nodded and traced the drawn path of the ship on one of the maps that laid on the table. “Yes, this ship is the S.S. Noah and it makes this route every week or so. A resupply ship. It should be very well-stocked for our purposes, not too many people on board because they don’t need too many hands on a crew like that, and they’re bound for London so as long as we don’t take all of it, they’ll have more than enough to live off until they dock. It’s perfect.” He finished confidently. “What time is it?”

Anathema pulled out a pocket watch. “Close to noon.”

“Okay,” and he pulled out the little golden compass, “if we continue on this trajectory, we should be right on their path in about...30 minutes? Not long now.”

“Alright. We’re trusting you,” Anathema said coldly. To Crowley, she said, “I’ll get everyone battle-ready.”

“Aye-aye, _captain_ ,” Crowley said jokingly as Anathema stalked away with purpose. “I like her,” he said, watching her walk away with a little smile on his face, so small Aziraphale wasn’t sure anyone else would have called it that. But Aziraphale knows. “She does all the real work, you know. I just play the part.”

“And you do a lovely job at it, dear.” Crowley finally turned to face Aziraphale completely, and that smile only grew. “Oh! By the way, this is yours, Crowley. Thank you,” and he handed over the golden compass back to Crowley.

“Oh...nah, Angel, you can keep that. It’s for you,” he waved a hand dismissively. “You might be needing it.” He said it with a smile that was way too soft for Aziraphale to process right at that moment. “Oh, but that reminds me, this is yours, actually. I meant to give it back earlier, but...things...happened.” The smile that had sat easily on Crowley’s face soured into a little frown. He reached into the breast-pocket of his white linen shirt and at the movement the deep neckline revealed a good portion of his chest without meaning to. Aziraphale could feel every drop of blood in his body go directly to his cheeks at the view. He almost missed Crowley’s hand offering out the white pocket-knife he’d taken on that first day. He glanced up at Crowley’s trusting face, cheeks still tomato-red, he was sure.

He looked at the knife, temporarily stunned, then back up at Crowley’s face. “You don’t think I’ll stab you in your sleep or something?” Aziraphale joked lightly.

Crowley cracked a crooked smile, and God, what he wouldn’t do to make Crowley laugh like that every damn day. 

“Well, not entirely sure yet but here’s hoping you don’t, Angel. I quite enjoy breathing.”

Aziraphale looked at the knife, and thought of everything it had represented to him, once. It had been gifted to him at the beginning of his career as a Royal, and from here could see the glint of the little embossed angel wings on the handle that he’d once been so proud of. He hated it now.

“Nah,” he echoed. “You can keep it. You might be needing it, dear. Quite soon, actually, it seems like.” Crowley glanced around at the seas at that. “Are you...Are you nervous?”

“Me?” asked Crowley. “Nah, Angel. Nothing we haven’t done before. If all goes according to plan, there’s no need to worry.” He spoke with an air of confidence that instead of comforting Aziraphale only served to make him more nervous. 

Aziraphale stretched a hand out tentatively across the table and over the maps laid out on it, and before he could think twice about it, placed his hand just next to Crowley’s. He laced their pinky fingers together ever so lightly; hardly enough to even be considered touching. But Crowley still looked down like his hands had been suddenly lit on fire, and stared at their fingers just hardly intertwined. “You’ll be...careful, right?” Aziraphale tried hard to keep his voice even, but he couldn’t hide the nervous furrow at his brow and his wide, pleading eyes.

Crowley looked up slowly, and curled his fingers a little so as to better grip Aziraphale’s. “Yeah, Angel. Really. Nothing to worry about.” He spoke it this time more quietly, and Aziraphale realized that the first time he’d asked, he’d been trying to convince himself; this time, he’d said it for Aziraphale, so this time he really meant it. He worried about those implications, but decided there was nothing else he could really do. “Okay,” was all he said, and he tightened his fingers around Crowley’s.

The moment passed, and suddenly Sergeant Shadwell’s voice boomed from somewhere below them. “Stations! Ye ken what to do!”

Crowley slid his hand out of Aziraphale’s, and his face changed into something Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d seen since...well, never, actually.

Crowley strode away purposefully from the table and shouted down from atop the staircase, “I want everybody with a weapon, now! Convene at your stations, and I want everyone _quiet_ and at the ready, all of you. Move it!” He walked back quickly to Aziraphale and said without really looking at him, “Alright, Angel, you need to go back to the quarters and stay there until we fetch you.”

“What? No,” argued Aziraphale quickly.

“You’re an Angel, they’ll recognize you. You can’t help.”

“They won’t remember me, and you need the extra hands!”

“No, I don’t. That’s what my expertly trained crew is for. Go. Now. I won’t argue with you now, there’s no time.”

“Wh---well, what if something goes wrong?”

“It won’t. And there wouldn’t be anything for you to do about it; seriously, Angel, I---”

“What if something happens to you?” Aziraphale said angrily.

Crowley finally really looked at him. He hadn’t really been paying attention to the conversation completely until then, but now Aziraphale had his full attention. And he seemed stunned. 

Aziraphale said with finality, “I’m staying. I’m not leaving you alone out here, I don’t care. That’s that.”

Crowley opened his mouth to spit out some retort, but upon seeing the angry look on Aziraphale’s eyes and the dangerously crossed arms, he looked up at the skies, as if he was rolling his eyes or sending a prayer up above, and grumbled, “Fine, fine. You’re ridiculous. Just...stick to the Them. Actually, help Them but _stay_ on the boat. You are _not_ to get off this ship for any reason, understood?”

Aziraphale nodded, and skittered off to find the Them before Crowley could change his mind. Crowley stood there for a second longer, wondering if this was what it liked to have someone care about your fate, and felt at the pocket knife guarded safely once again in the pocket against his chest. 

He schooled his face into something harder, straightened his back, and stalked off towards the crew. 

As he reached the rest of the crew, mostly congregated around the edges of the ship’s dock, he reached Madame Tracy and stuck his hand out silently. She slid the remaining sword from the arsenal into Crowley’s hand, one that had been saved especially for him. It was a sword truly fit for a Captain, long and slim, like Crowley, with thin silver serpents engraved down the entirety of both sides of its blade. The hilt was golden, and embedded with little yellow and red gemstones. The sword was obviously intended to look flashy and bold, but actually looked quite sleek and elegant in Crowley’s hand. 

He held the sword aloft in front of him, ready for use, and stalked around the edges of the boat, making sure the crew was hidden enough that they wouldn’t be seen from an approaching boat. He put his finger up to his tight lips as he went around, making sure everyone had been in their place.

The flags had been taken down to avoid suspicion, and from afar the boat looked empty, abandoned.

At least, that’s what the crew aboard the S.S. Noah thought as they approached the ship curiously. The big, fancy Royal ship came slowly closer, and the few crew members on deck craned their necks in curiosity at the ghost ship and wondered aloud at the strange phenomena. 

But what had two seconds ago been a ghost ship suddenly erupted to life, and movement came from all over the ship all at once. In moments, Anathema and Newt had launched a long, sturdy wooden board across the deck and onto the Royal ship, and several crew members ran along the board to confront the Royals on board. As they parried, the Them swiftly scurried across the board carrying ropes and things and ran past the fighting straight to the big wooden crates lying in the middle of the boat. 

The Hellions had the element of surprise, gladly, and Aziraphale found himself watching with terrified rapture at the enormous play taking place before him; every person had a role to play, and they were playing it beautifully. He had been told to stay on the boat, and he would, he promised. But he was also told to help the Them, so once they had paired off and began sliding heavy boxes and crates across the wooden board, Aziraphale, Anathema, and Newt retrieved them and slid them over to the S.S. Mary. 

In the meantime, Crowley had joined the fighting crew members in keeping the Royals at bay. He was actually quite heavenly to watch; Aziraphale could tell that even though Crowley didn’t like to fight, and didn’t really want to hurt anyone, that he was quick and clever and swift with his sword. Upon closer inspection, he really did actually hardly ever scrape anyone. He parried and dodged and pushed, but never sliced or stabbed or spilled a single drop of blood. The other crew members tried their best to do the same, but occasionally Aziraphale heard the nasty slicing sound of cloth and skin, and there were little splashes of blood beginning to paint the ground as minor slashes were made to both sides. 

There was a lot of yelling. Movements that were so fast they were blurred out of the corners of Aziraphale’s eyes. That smell of sweat and copper again that reminded Aziraphale of that very first day. The waves crashed bluntly and loudly on the sides of both ships, and the wind whipped coldly at Aziraphale’s cheekbones. Aziraphale thought to himself that, ignoring the very real danger and fear that existed here, that he might understand why Crowley seemed to enjoy his life here. The adrenaline shot rapidly through his veins like fire-lighted gasoline, and for all the books and maps in the world that he’d devoured, he’d never quite pictured any of those adventures like this. It was something different altogether to read and fantasize about something, and then to actually live it.

Adam and Pepper pushed over the last of the crates across the board, and whistled loudly over the commotion to signal the crew to move back onto the ship. All the Hellions that had been on the Noah scuttered back quickly over the board one by one, and Aziraphale climbed over the board to safely escort them back onto the S.S. Mary. Crowley continued to fight but was slowly backing up towards the board, making sure he was the last one on the ship before he climbed up and back to safety. Aziraphale looked back and saw Newt and Anathema ready to pull back the board as soon as both he and Crowley stepped off it, and Aziraphale reached forward to grab his shoulder and make sure he didn’t misstep. It’d be a long way down from here. But he’d gotten too close to the Royals.

“Wait _\---Aziraphale_?” One of the officers that had been fighting Crowley was looking past him and straight at Aziraphale with a look of confusion on his face. “Of the Domini? Is that you?”

“‘ _Oh, they won’t remember me, Crowley',_ ” parroted Crowley under his breath, obviously frustrated at the last minute trip-up, but there was also a hint of nervousness Aziraphale just barely recognized underneath everything else. 

The officer’s face turned from confusion quickly to a fresh sense of anger, and he climbed up on the board and lunged forward with his thin, Royal-issued sword in one swift movement.

Aziraphale had been too stunned at the rapid change in atmosphere to react, but Crowley, thankfully, had reacted quicker. At the lunge forward of the sword, Crowley’s first instinct had been to throw his left arm back and to push Aziraphale solidly back a few steps out of harm’s way. The sword passed cleanly through the space between Crowley’s rib cage and his left arm, and sliced easily through the cloth at his upper sleeve with a loud rip. If Aziraphale had still been there, it would have stuck right at his right shoulder blade. However, at that moment, he was more concerned about keeping his body balanced on the narrow board and not falling off the dozens of feet straight into ice cold, angry water. He grabbed at Crowley’s hand at his chest to accommodate the shift in balance, and Crowley gripped his shirt tighter to make sure he wouldn’t fall.

Oh, Crowley. 

Always thinking two steps ahead; so clever. Always thinking about Aziraphale first. 

He claimed to be hard, and sharp, and Bad, and cursed. And yet here he was always, looking out for the enemy. For Aziraphale. And Aziraphale realized he loved him.

Aziraphale loved him.

The realization hit him like a freight train, hard, at the space in his chest just underneath Crowley’s tight fist. 

“Why’ve you got a Royal officer on your ship? What’s going on?” The officer looked back and forth between Aziraphale and Crowley. 

Crowley hesitated.

And then, Aziraphale’s body was shifted again, this time positioned in between the officer and Crowley, with a blade against his throat.

“You get any closer, I’ll kill him,” growled Crowley deeply. “I will. He’s my prisoner. He’s been of use to me, but I’ll kill him here and now. We can get by without him.” Crowley had a hand fisted at the back of Aziraphale’s shirt to keep him in place, and had his other hand up at Aziraphale’s soft, pale throat. He held the sharp end of the blade pressed tightly against Aziraphale’s throat, but he felt no pain. Aziraphale realized, belatedly, that where Crowley was holding the hilt of the blade, he had also maneuvered his thumb to rest between the sharpness of the blade and his throat, so that the sword only appeared to dig into Aziraphale’s skin but actually was a good centimeter away. 

Aziraphale loved him.

“One step, and he’s dead,” Crowley repeated, as he took a step back, pulling Aziraphale carefully with him.

Aziraphale looked down, and saw a long, long way down. The waves crashed even more angrily than before. They rocked each boat hard, and Aziraphale had to bend his knees a bit just to keep from losing his balance from the sway of it. He looked back up with wide eyes, and a fresh sense of nausea.

“You wouldn’t,” spit out the officer, as he took one step forward. He kept his sword up, ready to strike again. His crew stalked slowly forward from their own ship, ready to back him up if needed. Aziraphale felt panic rise in him.

Aziraphale couldn’t really see it, but he felt something hot drip heavily down his throat and soak into the neckline of his white shirt. The officer’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. They all took a step back.

Crowley took another step back too, and pulled Aziraphale back with him. 

The officer looked back and forth from Aziraphale’s face to his throat, where Aziraphale could now feel a steady drip of heat down his collarbone. He realized Crowley had sliced his finger open to make it look like Aziraphale’s throat had been cut. 

“You wouldn’t...you wouldn’t dare kill a Royal officer,” the man said, hesitance clear in his voice. “The entire Royal army would descend on you. You’ll be dead within the week.” Not just hesitance, Aziraphale realized. Fear, too.

“We’re done here,” Crowley said with a determined set in his voice, and walked the last few steps back from the board to the S.S. Mary and clambered down without losing eye contact with the officers and without releasing Aziraphale from his tight grip against his own chest. 

Once the officers finally realized they had no choice but to let them go, they stepped off the board and both Anathema and Newt swiftly pulled the board back onto the ship. The rest of the crew ran to their stations, and started the ship moving again before Aziraphale could even blink. 

He let out a harsh breath, and was thankful that Crowley hadn’t released him yet. He needed the solid warmth to hold him up. He needed the strength. The familiarity. He’d changed his mind; he never wanted to do that again. 

Once the Royal ship was definitively out of view, Aziraphale turned around to face Crowley, and Crowley reluctantly released the tight grip on the back of Aziraphale’s shirt. The rest of the crew had left already, all bustling around the deck making sure the ship was going as fast as it was able in the exact opposite direction of the S.S. Noah to avoid any further trouble, for now.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale ventured upon seeing the blank expression on Crowley’s face as he turned around. Crowley’s head was bowed slightly down in relief, but his face revealed no emotion. His face was slack, and his mouth was slightly parted. His breath came out sharp and shuddering. “Crowley?” He tried again, quietly. He brought a hand up to his jawline to cradle his face gently, and almost stumbled when Crowley let his head slump heavily onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. The hand that had been headed for Crowley’s jawline landed instead on the back of Crowley’s head, and he cradled it against his shoulder. Crowley leaned heavily onto Aziraphale, so much that he had to take a step back to accommodate the extra weight.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into Crowley’s hair. It was sweaty and matted at the top. “It’s alright, I’ve got you. You must be exhausted, you’re drenched,” Aziraphale said as he pushed Crowley’s body slightly off of his shoulder to look down at his torso, where the sweat was sticking to Aziraphale’s own shirt. 

Except that when he looked down at Crowley’s black shirt peeling off of Aziraphale’s white one, he saw that Aziraphale’s shirt wasn’t white anymore. It was red.

“Crowley? What---” and Crowley’s knees went weak, “Crowley, hey! Crowley, wait, look at me, please---” Aziraphale couldn’t hold him up anymore and sank to his knees in front of Crowley’s crumpled body, one hand underneath his armpit and another holding his head up weakly. Every cell in Aziraphale’s body was surging with panic and adrenaline, and he couldn’t keep the terror out of his voice. It shook as he whispered.

“Crowley?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay juuuuust to clarify, i fully realize that i am fucking up my posting schedule here, but i think i'm going to stick to a one-chapter-a-week-at-LEAST policy from now on, so this should be everything for this week, and by next weekend we'll have another chapter, if not sooner. sorry i realize it's hectic, but i suffered writing this because of the Sad and i want y'all to suffer and be Sad with me too lmao.  
> thank you for your unending support, i literally save all the comments and kudos and things in my inbox to look at when i'm down and tired. thank you thank you thank you. i appreciate you all. yell at me in the comments or on my tumblr @alwayscomewhenyoucall


	13. a tapestry of ghost stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i lived, bitch !!!  
> (on a serious note please read the notes first!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay short chapter; please review the tags before continuing because this chapter is a little gory (not detailed or anything) but it deals with (spoilers!) Crowley's injuries after the fact and having to dress his wounds and stitch them closed. if you're not into blood, or details about how a wound is closed, pain associated with wounds, etc. please skip this chapter. i'm including a brief summary of what happened at the end so you don't miss much. if you're okay with that, continue onward. we now return to your regularly scheduled program. :)

Crowley was in a dark place. It was warm, and it was safe. It was nice, really. 

But he was slowly being pulled out of the dark, that slow crawl to consciousness after a deep, deep sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d rested so deeply. He was sorry to wake up. He felt his mind coming back to his body, which currently felt like it was belly-up on his bed, a scratchy blanket pulled up to his chin. He slowly became aware of the tight metal of his glasses digging into his left temple. Weird, he’d never fall asleep with his glasses on. He had his eyes closed still, and screwed them shut further to cling to these last few seconds of rest. He curled his toes, testing their movement, and let out a soft grumble in protest against the earth at waking.

“Crowley?” He heard a quiet, shaky voice say from beside the bed. That’s...unusual. He opened and closed his eyes in rapid succession. Too bright. He screwed one eye closed even tighter against the candlelight in the room, thankfully dulled by the darkness of the shades, and opened one eye to inspect the room. At the sight, his face softened and a little smile spread on his face.

“Good morning, angel. What a lovely surprise,” he teased. His voice was gravelly, and hoarse. He blinked slowly, and when he opened his eyes again he saw the strangest look on Aziraphale’s face. “Why the long face, love? Everything alri---” and as he moved to put his elbow up on the bed and push himself up, he groaned deeply and he felt a sharp, stabbing ache at his upper arm. His arm gave out from underneath him, and his torso collapsed roughly back on the bed, back in a lying position, and the space on his ribcage under his armpit protested in pain as well, and Crowley let out a quick hiss. Aziraphale rushed forward at Crowley’s tumble and hovered hands over his body, unsure of whether to touch him or not. Crowley looked from Aziraphale’s wary face to his own body and saw a thick tangle of gauze and cloth tied at his upper arm and some more around his torso. 

“Wha---?”

“You...you don’t remember?” asked Aziraphale cautiously. “What happened?” His eyes glistened a little in the candlelight, and he looked tired.

Crowley looked from his arm to Aziraphale, and then back to his arm. Oh. Well. Guess that didn’t go as smoothly as he’d planned. 

“Oh,” was all he said. 

“You lost a lot of...blood,” Aziraphale said with a fragile note on his voice, like all it would take would be one wrong word for him to just break like glass. “They had to...I’m no doctor, I didn’t know what to do...you know, turns out Madame Tracy is quite skilled at wound dressing, I never would have guessed, she’s got quite the repertoire, doesn’t she, I mean---” Aziraphale was rambling, but seemed to notice and got a slight hold of himself, “---what doesn’t she do, you know,” he finished weakly.

Crowley realized it was dark out as he looked around the room, nothing but candle light flickering off the walls. Outside, it seemed quiet. “What time is it?”

“Oh, uh, maybe...three? Four? I’m not...not entirely sure, actually,” Aziraphale said, looking around as Crowley had.

“In the morning?” How long had he been out?

“Y-yeah, you...you needed the rest, I guess.”

They sat together in silence. Crowley looked down at his wounds again, still lying down, and moved to start unwinding the cloth tied at his upper arm, until Aziraphale reached out a tentative hand to stop him.

“Those are fresh dressings, you’ll want to keep those there, dear,” said Aziraphale. “I just put those on.”

“You...put these on?”

And Aziraphale turned a deep shade of red, the first time Crowley had seen anything but sadness etched on his face since he’d woken up. “Yes, I....I offered to stay here with you and change them for you as needed. You kept...you kept soaking through them. You wouldn’t stop...bleeding.” He paused and took a shaky breath. Crowley waited patiently, mind still in a bit of a fog. “You got cut just above your ribcage, there,” and Aziraphale pointed to the spot under his left armpit, “but it wasn’t very deep, surface wound. Should heal rather quickly, I think. It’s...it’s the arm that’s the trouble.” He looked down to steel himself (against what, Crowley wasn’t sure) and took another deep breath. He looked at his hands. Crowley looked too, and they were stained a deep brownish red under the fingernails and in the small crevices of his palm and fingers. “It was almost...I could see your bone, I think. It was...bad. And you just wouldn’t stop...bleeding. But they made me go out and then Madame Tracy told me you’d need stitches but you’d be fine and I just…” He stopped. His hands had started trembling deeply. And so had his voice. “I am so... _sorry_ , Crowley. I---It’s my fault, it’s all my _fault---_ ”

“Wh--- _you’re_ sorry? I don’t---” Crowley fumbled. He was confused.

“If I hadn’t...I swear I didn’t think they’d recognize me, really, they shouldn’t have, I’m no one. And I should have...if I had stayed inside like you’d told me to, maybe...and then I just had to---”

“Woah, hold on, okay, angel wait,” Crowley struggled to interrupt. Aziraphale wouldn’t even look at him, and he’d begun rubbing his fingers on his hand, trying to scrub out the blood stains, even though it did nothing to make the color go away. “It was _not_. Your fault. Hey,” he said, and waited for Aziraphale to look up. “It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you, of course I don’t blame you.” Aziraphale scanned his face, and his eyes were shiny and watery. He looked back down at Crowley’s arm, and winced visibly. 

“I was so worried,” he whispered. “That…” He swallowed with a click.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Crowley whispered back. He hoped it would help, but Aziraphale just looked up angrily.

“No, you don’t have to be---” Aziraphale said quickly. “You….I.” He breathed, and shook his head. He started to move from his seated position at a chair next to Crowley’s bed, and mumbled, “I’ll go get Tracy.”

“Wait, Aziraphale, what--?”

“St-stitches...dear. You need stitches. But I had to wait till you...woke up.”

“You do it.” It rushed out in one breath.

“What?” Aziraphale’s eyes widened harshly, and his eyebrows skyrocketed. “No, I---I really don’t---”

“Please,” said Crowley. He begged. “ _Please_. Don’t...don’t go. Please,” he begged. He begged.

Aziraphale shifted his weight from foot to foot, halfway to the door already, half-turned. “I…” he started. “I hurt you. I’ll hurt you again.”

“ _Please_ ,” He begged. He begged.

Aziraphale looked down at his golden ring he always wore and twisted it slowly, a sign that Crowley had learned meant he was nervous. At war with himself. Crowley collected these little habits, these little movements like a raven hoards pretty things. To be enjoyed quietly, to treasure, to keep for himself. “Of course, Crowley,” Aziraphale finally said. “If...if that’s what you want. Let me...let me gather some things, okay?” 

“Okay,” Crowley breathed in relief. “Oh, and bring me something to drink, yeah? Lots of somethings, preferably?” He said, attempting to lighten the mood a bit.

Aziraphale chuckled darkly, and just said, “Okay.”

By the time Aziraphale had come back, Crowley had already removed the dressings on his arm, and winced every time he had to yank a bit where the blood had dried on the gauze. He’d made it start to bleed again, just a little. He dabbed at it gently with the dirty cloth, and inspected the wound more closely. He’d had close calls before, and he’d definitely been in some bad scrapes over the years. But Aziraphale hadn’t been exaggerating, unfortunately, and Crowley could see the wound was one of his deeper ones, definitely. 

Well. It was worth it. 

He poked at it experimentally, and grimaced sharply at the pain. He looked up and found that Aziraphale had already come back and was holding a small box filled with needles and cloth and string and other assorted medical things, and in his other arm was balanced a big, clunky bottle of whiskey. He was looking at Crowley’s arm again and the shame was etched deeply into his beautiful features. 

“Hey,” Crowley said softly, and seemed to shock him out of a daze, “It’s not even that bad. Really, Angel, I’ve had much worse. There was one time in Africa and---”

“I don’t want to know, Crowley,” Aziraphale cut in with a smile, but the corners pulled down and it turned into a sad little frown. He put his things down on the drawers next to Crowley’s bed, and pulled the chair closer to the bed so Aziraphale was almost pressed against his side. Now that Crowley was more awake, he realized the chair Aziraphale had grabbed had been his desk chair, one gilden in black and gold. 

“Hey, who said you could sit in the throne?” He teased.

Aziraphale just laughed quietly, and started pulling things out of the box. So he wasn’t in the mood for jokes, then, Crowley thought. That’s okay. 

He tried again, “I’m sorry, I just---”

“Please don’t apologize, dear.” Aziraphale said with finality. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Crowley closed his mouth with a click, and swallowed thickly. He didn’t want to be the reason Aziraphale felt sad, or angry, or guilty, or whatever this was, but he didn’t know what else to say. He wanted to fix it. He settled back against the pillows and Aziraphale handed him the bottle of whiskey. “You may want to start drinking, dear.”

Their fingers touched as Crowley reached for the neck of the bottle, and Aziraphale’s hands were hot to the touch. 

Aziraphale spoke again. Every word seemed to be pulled out at great cost from a deep, dark place somewhere in his chest. “Actually, you may want to sit up a bit. Could you...could you scoot up for me, a little?”

Crowley put his right elbow up on the bed this time, and leaned heavily into it to lift his head and torso partly off the bed. Aziraphale moved quickly to pull the pillows out from under him to lean them against the wall, and then placed a gentle hand at Crowley’s back to guide him into a more upright position. 

As Crowley moved up, the blanket fell from around his body, and landed in a clump at his waist. He realized he was shirtless as he looked down at the mess of scars and tattoos that littered his body. Christ. He could feel his face turning a deep, hot red and as he settled back against the wall he quickly moved his hand to self-consciously yank the blanket back up his body. He glanced at Aziraphale from underneath his eyelashes to look for a reaction.

Aziraphale spoke first, sensing the nervousness. “I already saw them, dear, we had to cut your shirt off of you to get to the wounds. I...I know you’re quite private with the...glasses and all but it was unavoidable. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. If it’s...if it’s a problem I can...I could wrap something around you, if..if you like.” 

“Is it...a problem?” Crowley ventured shyly. He knew what he must look like; his entire body was covered in black ink, his body a gruesome collection of his fears and dreams and dark places. Snakes all along his arms and ribs, coiling around thick white scars all over his skin. He had dark black crow’s wings down his shoulder blades, phrases carved into his forearms, leaves and plants and pomegranates and pears along his spine and back, skulls and sunsets and swords and ships and landscapes like a tapestry of ghost stories aching from within his body. And under them and over them and through them were scars, scrapes, burns, scratches, stab wounds, and one small gunshot, right through his right clavicle. He looked...well, not good. And that was just his torso.

“No, dear. I don’t mind them,” Aziraphale soothed without looking up, threading some black thick thread onto a large, curved sewing needle. “I...think they’re...nice, actually.” Aziraphale wouldn’t be saying that when he first saw Crowley’s torso uncovered, wiped free of blood, that he couldn’t breathe. He felt sadness at the obvious pain Crowley had experienced over the years, but more than anything an intense flush of his blood suddenly surging dangerously around his body. It was...so inappropriate, he knew, but his mouth watered at the prospect of sucking kisses on each black spot along Crowley’s body, laving his tongue and sucking roughly until he could taste the sweat, Crowley writhing and moaning underneath him. 

_Not now, Aziraphale._

_Not ever._

Very inappropriate.

Crowley didn’t seem very convinced, mistaking Aziraphale’s discomfort as a negative reaction to the sight, and balled his fist deeper into the blanket now held up around his sternum. Crowley thought about that day he had accidentally walked into Aziraphale’s room as he was changing. It seemed like years ago now. He’d been stricken almost blind by the pale, blank skin that seemed to stretch for miles and miles. Soft, white skin. Blank canvas. Unblemished, unhurt, untouched. It was like looking at a marble statue. Glistening. Perfect.

Crowley remembered, and pushed away the thought.

He couldn’t say it, Aziraphale had asked him not to (and who was he to refuse anything to his angel?), but he would think it, over and over again. _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You deserve better. I wish I could make you feel better. I hate to see you like this. I hate that you have to see me like this. I’m sorry that I make you feel like this is your fault. I’m sorry you don’t think I’d do it again for you, a thousand times over. I’m sorry you don’t feel like you deserve it. I’m sorry you don’t know that I love you. I’m sorry that I can’t tell you that I love you. I’m sorry that I love you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

He opened the bottle of whiskey with one hand, and took a deep swig of it. Swallowed the liquid down once, twice, three times. He gulped it down viciously. Helplessly.

He lowered the bottle and took a shaky breath. _I’m sorry._

Aziraphale, meanwhile, had finished threading the needle, and had begun soaking one piece of cloth in water and another in alcohol ( _the non-drinkable kind_ , Crowley thought darkly). He sighed deeply and said, “Ready?”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale through his glasses, and thanked _God_ , er….well someone, for his glasses, and he nodded. He set his jaw tightly and leaned back against the wall. He took another drag of whiskey. He looked ahead stubbornly and nodded again.

He heard Aziraphale gulp, and jumped a little at the initial touch of skin when Aziraphale rested his fingers around the wound. He took the alcohol-soaked piece of cloth and gently wiped at the area around and over the gaping wound. Crowley, bravely, said nothing, but he clenched his jaw impossibly tighter and tightened his left hand, the one not holding the liquor, into a fist that he would later discover had left bloody half-moon scars along his palm where his fingernails had been pressed into his own skin in pain. Aziraphale took another trembling breath, and pierced the skin with the needle. Crowley said nothing.

He had to give Aziraphale credit; for all his obvious nervousness and discomfort, he had healer’s hands. He soothed with every graze of his fingertips, and he moved quickly. Not harshly, but in an attempt to get the pain over with as quickly as possible. He had steady hands, and though he claimed to not know what he was doing, he tied skilled knots at the base of his skin like he’d done it thousands of times before. He wondered how he knew what to do; whether he’d done it before, or if he’d read about it somewhere before. Maybe he’d woken up Tracy to ask, who knows. He probably hadn’t, if it had been so early in the morning, but...who knows.

It took a lot of whiskey to get through it.

It took about a half hour, probably, maybe a bit more, but to Crowley it felt like he’d been holding his breath for hours. 

Aziraphale let out a harsh breath and said, “Okay, I think that’s it, dear,” and he wiped the alcohol wipe against the now closed wound. Crowley couldn’t really feel it anymore. It had gone numb some time ago. 

Aziraphale put down the needle and wipes, and he picked up the cloth soaked in water, and wrung it out over a clean bowl. As he reached up to run the cloth over Crowley’s sweaty forehead, his hair matted down messily over it, he probed gently, “Crowley? It’s over, love.”

Crowley released the set in his jaw and felt the breath rush out of his body in relief. He was just numb enough and drunk enough that he couldn’t feel pain anymore, but he was still awake enough to register the feeling of Aziraphale’s hands on his face, and to hear the glorious echo of the endearment, ‘ _It’s over, love,_ ’ ringing through his ears.

Crowley panted quietly.

“You should go back to sleep, okay?” Aziraphale added when Crowley didn’t move. “I’ll...I’ll be just next door if you...need me.” He stood up slowly from his chair and watched Crowley's uncovered chest rise and fall more steadily with every second that passed. He picked up the box of things, and neither of the two were entirely sure whether Crowley was fully awake anymore. The empty bottle that sat limply in Crowley’s arms was pried out from his body and set on the drawers beside him. He closed his eyes, exhausted. 

Aziraphale moved a hand to wipe away the wet hair from Crowley’s brow, and bent down to press a barely-there kiss to Crowley’s temple. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into the skin there. Crowley couldn’t say anything against the knot in his throat. He opened his eyes just in time to see Aziraphale closing the door, and he just heard, or maybe dreamed it, as he sank back into that dark, comfortable unconsciousness, “Good night, Crowley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****BEFORE CONTINUING important note, i want to make very clear that i am NOT a medically trained professional, and this fic should not be used as a guide on how to care for a wounded person. i watched one youtube video, and i gave a chicken breast stitches for class once in high school, several years ago. please make sure if you ever encounter a situation like this that you get professional medical advice or call 911 or something. okay disclaimer over lmao.****
> 
> okay! so that was painful (for all of us, but especially our sneky boi, sorry about that crowley). next chapter will be more comfort i promise, and i still got lots of action and romance planned, no worries!!  
> for those of you who skipped the chapter, quick summary:  
>   
> crowley wakes up, and aziraphale has obviously been very worried about him. it is now nighttime, and crowley has been out for most of the day. when he awakes, he is ashamed to see that he is shirtless, albeit wearing his sunglasses at least (i made a typo and typed singlasses the first time, i cackled, just thought i would share that with you.) anyway he's covered in tats (surprise!) and scars, and he's self-conscious about it, aziraphale thinks that's hot AF but doesn't say anything about it, acts nonchalant about it.  
>   
> anyway he got a minor scrape on his ribs but a pretty deep slice on his inner left arm. aziraphale, after some argument, is asked to stitch him up. a little angsty, crowley acts like it doesn't hurt that bad but is exhausted by the end. aziraphale feels SUPER guilty thinking this was all his fault, and crowley feels guilty for making aziraphale feel sad and worried about him. so lots of angst. by the end, crowley is so tired he's kind of swimming in between sleep and wakefulness, so zira gives him a lil kiss on the forehead and apologizes again. he leaves him to sleep again, and zira, after watching over him since the incident, finally retires to his own room to give him some space. (oh, my poor boys. when will your cruel cruel author let you rest?)  
>   
>   
> we'll pick up from there on the next chapter, and i'll try to reference a lot of the details that happened in the next chapter so i don't lose anyone. please let me know if there's any other things i should mention, tags i should add, trigger warnings, etc. please, no worries at all. i love you all dearly, the last thing i would want would be to make somebody feel something they wouldn't like to. much love!! see you next week.


	14. you pick the flower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ;)  
> it's a LOT of plot, and angst as always. good stuff.  
> crowley continues to recover from his injuries, aziraphale tries to get him to eat, they hold hands for a minute, aaaand we get launched into the next big plot thing. very excited y'all!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took a second, but i'm back. nice long, juicy chapter for y'all. enjoy!!

“Again,” Crowley barked out loudly.

“...again?” Pepper, one of the Them, echoed back doubtfully. She bravely held a sword outwards in her calloused hands.

“ _Again_ ,” Crowley growled. He held out his own long silver sword in front of him, and seemed to have a permanent scowl on his face. He waved it expectantly at Pepper, and crouched defensively into a fighting stance.

Pepper braced herself with a deep breath and a soft shake of her head. She grabbed her own plain flat sword, and crouched into her own fighting stance. It was less technical and confident than Crowley’s, and her footwork was a little fumbly, but as she stabbed her weapon forward and swerved around the jab of Crowley’s sword, it was clear that this time, and every time after it, she would win.

She blocked a forceful parry from Crowley, and easily twisted around it and lunged at Crowley’s left side. He tried to twist away from it, but his left arm, wrapped in gauze and slowly staining it red, refused to cooperate. It remained frozen in an awkward position against his ribs, a defensive posture, and he stumbled as he lost his footing and couldn’t gain it back as easily as he once could have.

The tip of Pepper’s sword just barely grazed the space above his skin at his stomach. She’d won, again. Crowley growled loudly, obviously frustrated, and barked out once more, “ _Again._ ”

It was awful to watch. Aziraphale stood off to the side, helping Anathema chart a course that would help them avoid any further accidental encounters with the Royals. He hadn’t known what else to do. Everything reminded him of Crowley; of almost losing him, of it being his fault entirely, of loving him. It was exhausting. He couldn’t even read his books in peace without the image of copper hair and copper-stained gauze, long elegant fingers carving half-moons into his own palm as he clenched his fist in pain, soft warmth of skin turning clammy and cold under his touch.

He could have died.

And it would have been Aziraphale’s fault.

He hadn’t slept much since then. He’d wake up gasping and clutching at his chest, trying to fill the hole that Crowley’s death, in his dreams, had left. It had felt like a black hole, and Aziraphale wondered when his whole life had started revolving around that of Crowley’s. He wanted to stop loving him. It hurt. Goddamn it, it hurt.

Sometimes, he’d wake up in the middle of the night, and he’d notice fresh tears sliding warmly down his cheek, and he’d think, _Oh God, oh God, I’ve killed him. I killed him._ And he’d tip his feet over the bed quickly and scamper clumsily out from beneath sweaty balled-up sheets, and he’d wait outside Crowley’s door, trying to listen for a sound. A breath. Sometimes, he’d hear a soft snore, and he’d be satisfied. His breath would all rush out of his lungs and he’d suddenly be sobbing, and think, _I haven’t killed him. Not yet, anyway._

And sometimes, he wouldn’t hear a noise for a long time. And he’d try to fight it, at first, but he’d always give in and twist the doorknob ever so slightly. He’d crack open the heavy door, and he’d tiptoe across the room to Crowley’s bed. And there, wrapped in an impossible amount of bedsheets all rumpled and bunched, a lock of copper hair would peek out from underneath the cocoon. And Aziraphale would breathe. And he’d sit there on the floor next to Crowley’s bed just to hear him breathe and sigh softly. He’d stifle the panic and the terror, and he’d try to time his breaths to match Crowley’s, until he could see straight again and he didn’t feel like his heart was just about to burst out of his chest and leave behind a bloody, dirty mess.

Aziraphale never wanted to see that much blood again in his life.

When he could breathe again and his eyes were no longer watery and blurry, he’d stand up as quietly as he could on the creaky floorboards, and take one last glance at the mass of sheets on the bed he had to assume was a Crowley hidden in there, and tiptoe back to his room. 

It hurt to love him.

It hurt to love something that he realized he would one day, somehow, lose.

Aziraphale couldn’t sleep, and he couldn’t stay in his room, waiting for Crowley to get better. But he _could_ get the hell off this ship and make Crowley safe again. That’s what he realized, on one of those sleepless nights on Crowley’s floor. As long as he was on this ship, he was a danger to them all. To Crowley. And now that they knew he was here, well. Time was up. They’d never stop, and they’d never leave them alone. And if they got to Crowley again? They wouldn’t just give him a scrape this time. ( _A scrape. That’s what he’d tell himself it was. Anything to keep the panic away. The terror. It was just a scrape. He’s okay now. He’s okay.)_ They wouldn’t be satisfied with a warning, or a sharp word. They would _destroy_ him. And Aziraphale wasn’t worth all that. He just wasn’t. So he’d get off this ship, and he’d make sure Crowley was safe again, and then he’d disappear from Crowley’s life forever, and that would be that. Yes. That would be that, then.

For now, however, he was stuck here. Crowley hadn’t been avoiding him, per se, but he’d been awfully sulky these last few days. He’d been mostly stuck in his room for the whole first day. He tried to get back to work soon after that, but people kept corralling him back into his room. Crowley could be stubborn, but Anathema had a glare that there was simply no arguing with.

Today, he’d (arbitrarily) decided he was fine and had wandered out of his room when Anathema had been busy and the rest of the crew went about their regular duties, only to corner Pepper and ‘persuade’ her to help him practice his sword fighting. _“I’ve got to be ready for the next batch, haven’t I? Plus, I’m fine. Just a scratch, really. It’s nothing._ ” And when he’d noticed Aziraphale closeby and within earshot, he’d added loudly, _“It doesn’t even hurt. I'm as good as ever, see? I can keep everyone safe. I can.”_ Aziraphale hadn’t acknowledged the comment, and hadn’t turned to look at him. He couldn’t. He couldn’t look and see all he’d done to Crowley. After everything Crowley had done for him. 

If closeness was dangerous, then he’d stay as far away as he could.

Aziraphale helped Anathema navigate and chart their path, and he stared out at the setting sun with a heavier heart than he could ever remember having. And that whole afternoon, all he could hear, over and over, was just, _“Again.”_

_////////_

The next few days were torture.

Crowley would wake up, and forget for a couple blissful seconds, and turn on his side in that delicious half-wakefulness; only to remember immediately, painfully, what had happened in the days before. Sharp pain would jolt him quickly awake from his warm cocoon of safety, and directly into a world where everything hurt, and he couldn’t move right, and he couldn’t be strong for his crew, and he couldn’t love Aziraphale.

It was awful.

After that first night, after Aziraphale had stitched him up and left him to lick his wounds alone, he decided he would get better quick, for Aziraphale. He’d fake it if he had to, he’d do whatever he needed to, but he couldn’t stand that guilty look on Aziraphale’s face. Like he’d...like it had been his fault. It was so wrong. And he couldn’t even explain to him why it was wrong. I’m in love with you so of course I wanted to save you? I would do it again a thousand times to see you safe and okay? I can barely feel the pain when I remember your hand clutched in mine at your chest, knowing that I would keep you safe? When I remember your fingers gently twisting in mine when you asked me to be careful, before all of it? When I remember the feeling of your voice in my ear, just before I passed out, your shoulder under my forehead, your gentle hands on my head, rocking me into unconsciousness? 

I could have died, then, and it would have been fine. To feel you under me like that. To feel you holding me like that. 

_I’m not leaving you alone out there._

_I’ve got you. I’ve got you._

_It’s over, love._

_Love._

Although, if he had died, Crowley never would have heard that last bit. And if he had died, Aziraphale might have been sad; strangely, he’d seemed...genuinely worried about Crowley. And he wouldn’t hurt Aziraphale like that. 

He wouldn’t do that to Aziraphale. 

He wouldn’t.

Crowley wondered when he started loving Aziraphale. It hadn’t hit him suddenly. It wasn’t some grand epiphany or a sudden swell of emotion that made him feel it; he thinks he may have always loved Aziraphale, from the very beginning. From that very first day on the ship. Soft blue eyes looking up at him from his place on the deck floor. He’d loved him then, he thought. He just didn’t know the feeling yet. He didn’t have a word for it. He’d never seen it before, or felt it before, or had it before. And then one morning, he just knew it. Oh. 

There was never a time when he hadn’t loved Aziraphale. He always had, and he always would.

Shame. 

He’d never tell him, obviously. He thought maybe Aziraphale already knew it, deep down. But he’d never say it. He deserved better. He deserved..more. And Crowley didn’t deserve good clean things like that. And if he pursued anything at all with Aziraphale, then he was even worse than he knew himself to be. Because to know all the bad things that Crowley was and said and did and then to try to love Aziraphale anyway? To think he deserved to _touch_ that porcelain skin? Well. It was selfish. And cruel. 

Sometimes when you come across a pretty thing, you’d like to take it and hide it away; you pick the flower, and you buy the painting, and you kiss the boy. Crowley did none of those things. And he never would.

The next few days were torture.

They were all like that.

And in his head the endless loop, _Everything hurts._

_But the sooner I get better, the less pain I cause for Aziraphale._

_But he doesn’t really care for you, does he. He just feels guilty._

_You’re arrogant to think he cares about you._

_You’re selfish for feeling the pain, and wanting him to be there to kiss it away._

_But everything hurts._

_Everything hurts._

_Everything hurts._

////////

“Aziraphale?”

“Hm?” Aziraphale blinked rapidly, realizing that he’d stopped listening to Anathema some time ago, and had become lost in his thoughts staring at the darkening, setting sun and making mental lists of all the things he’d never have. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear, could you say that again?” He cleared his throat guiltily and took his hands off the wood at the edge of the deck to set them behind his back.

“You’re not listening,” she said, not accusingly, just matter-of-fact. 

“Oh, no, sorry, dear, I just---”

“It’s fine,” she said easily. “Anyway, I think we’re just about done here with the charts. But,” and she paused, “I do need you to do something for me.” She said with just a shade of caution that made Aziraphale listen just a bit more intently.

“Of course, what can I do for you, dear?” Aziraphale would take any distraction right now. Anything.

Anathema waited a beat, and twisted the quill in her hand slightly. Anathema didn’t have any nervous ticks, Aziraphale had noticed, because she didn’t get nervous. She had this way about her that made it seem like she knew everything that would happen, and was always ready for it. Nothing shook her, nothing surprised her, and nothing made her nervous. But if she had ever developed any nervous ticks, this may have been one of them. 

“I need you to ask the Captain what the new bearings are...where to next,” she added at the confusion on Aziraphale’s face. “We can’t just sail forever avoiding the Royal Navy. Eventually, we need someplace to stop. Rest. Resupply. We need a direction.” She waited patiently for Aziraphale to put it all together.

And at the look on his face, it seemed he was slowly getting the gist of it. They were taking him back. They had to go somewhere, and the next logical step was taking Aziraphale back. It’s what they had talked about, what they had discussed in their deal such a long time ago. It made sense. And it was what he wanted, to keep them safe, to go home, but being faced with it, having to face Crowley about it...well. 

He wasn’t even sure what he’d be going back to, really. Certainly not home anymore. Somewhere along the way, he’d realized he’d never had a home. Simply a place where he stored his precious things. A place to sleep in. Home...it was where _he_ was. And no place without him could ever feel like a home ever again.

“Can’t...can’t you just ask him?” Aziraphale stuttered nervously.

Anathema just stared.

“Yes alright, I’ll...right. Tickety-boo,” he trailed off, his eyes glancing down for some other distraction to save him.

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes?” He turned his eyes up quickly, hoping Anathema would take pity on him after all and decide to go herself. 

“Maybe you should take him some food? He seems a bit...grumpy as it is,” she said carefully. “Maybe some rum while you’re at it.” And then she shuffled the maps and charts on the table together, picked them all up gracefully (like everything else she did), and walked away. 

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale whispered to himself, thinking of the deep frown that had made its home on Crowley’s face when Pepper had finally convinced him he was still not healed enough to be fighting. He’d stormed off dangerously, and taken his sword with him. Pepper had gone off and continued about her duties, unbothered, while Aziraphale’s brain had taken a little nosedive from listening to Anathema map out possible ship routes and straight into wondering what Crowley was doing, how he was feeling, how he could feel the tension hanging between them even across the ship, like a thick, heavy rope tied round both their hearts, swinging back and forth messily. Pushing at one, and pulling at the other.

He brought his hands forward, and twisted the gold band around his finger. He rocked on his feet back and forth, trying to will his body to move. It wouldn’t. Finally, he thought of Crowley sitting in his room, alone, hungry, and he figured if anything, he’d do it for Crowley. He wouldn’t starve simply because Aziraphale was too much of a coward to face losing Crowley again. This time, forever. 

_It was for the best, it was for the best,_ he tried to convince himself.

_Keep him safe._

Once his feet had taken him to the kitchens, mostly unconsciously, he retrieved a bowl for Crowley, making sure to nick a bottle of whiskey on his way out as well. Anathema was probably right; he’d surely be in a...not-so-favorable mood right about now, and a glass of alcohol seemed to always soothe Crowley’s constantly racing mind.

His feet had, somehow, taken him to Crowley’s door, where Aziraphale had stopped to take a few sobering breaths.

He knocked.

“ _What,_ ” Crowley yelled out from the other side of the door. 

Aziraphale didn’t quite know what to say to that. He struggled for a second, and decided maybe he ought to just...face him and get it over with. He stuck the bottle from his right hand into the crook of his left arm, and twisted open the doorknob, opening the door about halfway before stepping into the room. Crowley was standing in the middle of the room, having pushed some of the chairs and the table out of the way to make more room. His room looked a mess, clothes and gauze and books and maps laid out on random surfaces scattered throughout the room. Crowley stood in the middle of it, shirtless, fighting an imaginary foe intensely. His hair was tied back haphazardly into a bun at the back of his head, but several strands had already fallen out of the band that held it together, and they waved wildly with every lunge of Crowley’s sword. He was still wearing his glasses, of course, but he had taken off his tan shirt that he’d been wearing earlier and had seemingly tossed it into some corner of the room to be retrieved later. There was thick gauze surrounding his entire left arm from the shoulder to just past his elbow, and Aziraphale could see the thick layer of sweat glistening all along his back, shining in the dim light of his room, reflecting and dancing off his shifting muscles that jumped and tensed with every angry stab into air that he made. 

“ _What?_ ” he repeated again, and turned angrily to look at the intruder. Upon seeing Aziraphale’s worried expression, he straightened up and cleared his throat gently. “Aziraphale,” he breathed. “Sorry.” He opened his mouth to say something else, but couldn’t seem to find words. He glanced down at his body, sparkling with sweat, and groaned quietly. He seemed to forget about Aziraphale for a second, and began searching in the piles at his feet for something; when he found a shirt among the things on the floor, he pulled it over his head harshly. When he got to the left sleeve he slid it gently, slowly over the gauze. He finally looked up at Aziraphale, who still had said nothing, and said, “You brought food.”

Aziraphale blinked, coming back to himself. Crowley looked...just…

Oh, he couldn’t do this.

“Ah,” he fumbled. “Y-yes, I did. I thought you might be...hungry.” He ran his empty hand through his hair, a nervous gesture, and Crowley followed its movement quietly with his eyes. “I...I brought whiskey. Also. So.”

Crowley pressed his lips together and nodded sharply. “You did,” and upon receiving no reply, “Thank you. Aziraphale.”

They both stared at the ground awkwardly.

“I have something to say---” started Aziraphale quickly, at the same time that Crowley breathed out, “Can we just---” and it was the softness in Crowley’s voice that made Aziraphale stop. He looked up and saw that, even through the glasses, he could see Crowley’s eyes were screwed shut, tight. His shoulders were pulled down and forward, in a defensive posture, and his hand that wasn’t still holding the sword was balled into a tight fist. He seemed to squeeze it tighter with each passing moment.

Aziraphale waited, and breathed.

Crowley sucked in a deep breath through his teeth, and tried again, more slowly, and more sadly. “Can we not do this, please?”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “Do...do what, dear?”

“This,” he said in explanation. Aziraphale waited. “I just...I need you to stop...looking at me like that. Please.”

“Like...like what?” Oh, God, was he being obvious? Did Crowley know, this whole time, how much Aziraphale craved him? How much he’d missed him? That he loved him?

“Like...like you’re sorry. Like. Like you’re...worried about me. Like this was your fault,” and Crowley took a shuddering breath. Another one, carefully. Measured. “This isn’t...your fault. If it’s about...I forgive you, if that’s what that is. Not that there’s anything to forgive, obviously; just...whatever you wanna hear, I...I just… I can’t do this anymore. Please,” he pushed the words out of his body desperately, head still bowed towards the ground, eyes still forced shut under the layer of darkness his glasses provided. His hand opened slowly from the fist, and hung limply at his side. “I’m sorry.” He swore he’d never say it again, and yet.

“No, Crowley, it’s not…” Aziraphale didn’t know what he was trying to say. Was it, don’t be sorry because it’s me that hurt you and not the other way around? Was it, I hate to hear you so sad and vulnerable, did I do that? Is that something else I should be apologizing for?

Instead, he carefully stepped towards the table and set down the bottle, still held in the crook of his arm, and the warm bowl of soup he’d brought for Crowley. He hesitated, playing with his ring for a moment, and then walked forward into Crowley’s space. He was so close he could feel Crowley’s warmth radiating off his body, but Crowley still wouldn’t open his eyes. Aziraphale opened his mouth, and closed it again. He always seemed to run out of words when he was around Crowley. There was too much he wanted to say, and too little that he could. So every time he went to say something important, it always came out as a strangled sound or a frustrated huff instead. Today, his body couldn’t even summon that much eloquence, apparently, but he couldn’t leave Crowley alone like that. Distance be damned; right now, Crowley needed comfort. And if Aziraphale could provide it, if only in some small, twisted, insignificant way, then he would. It would hurt Aziraphale more in the end, he knew, but...for Crowley. For Crowley, he could do it.

He breathed out, and reached out his right arm to brush at the skin on Crowley’s empty left hand. Crowley whipped his head up sharply, and Aziraphale saw the skin around his glasses stretch, suggesting that his eyes had just popped open and were threatening to fall out of their sockets. Aziraphale instinctively pulled his hand back in surprise, but he quickly moved it back and let it graze at his open fingers, just barely, an invitation. A suggestion. A caress.

And Crowley took hold of it like it was a lifeboat. He swung his hand forward, almost too far in his desperation, and clutched Aziraphale’s hand tightly, like Aziraphale might change his mind at any moment. Their fingers interlaced, and they both let out a sigh that they had been holding onto for three days, a breath of relief, a release of tension, a giving-up of pulling and pushing on that infernal rope that held them taut and tied to each other. 

Crowley leaned forward, and rested his forehead, just barely, at Aziraphale’s shoulder. For a second, it was too much; it was too much like those moments just before Crowley had collapsed, just before Aziraphale had known what true terror was. What love was. But it also felt a little more like that night they had danced. The night they had kissed.

“Had we done that before?” Aziraphale murmured over Crowley’s head.

It took him a while to answer, but eventually he grumbled out from Aziraphale’s shoulder, “Done what?”

“Danced,” Aziraphale said uncertainly.

Crowley turned his head sideways, towards Aziraphale’s neck. His brows were creased together. “What?”

“No, nothing. I was just...I was just thinking of that night we...danced. There’s something about it I felt...for a second we had already done that. Before.” 

“Definitely not...danced, no,” Crowley said quietly. His breath felt hot against Aziraphale’s neck. 

Aziraphale could’ve sworn he’d been held like this before, like he’d been... cradled. Hugged. Carried? The more he probed at the distant feeling, the more pieces started to shift into clarity.

“We kissed.” He declared breathlessly.

He hesitated. “Yes, we did, angel,” Crowley said matter-of-factly, careful not to show too much emotion. “That night. When we danced.”

“No. Before,” he insisted. “Didn’t we?” 

Aziraphale felt Crowley tense, hard, under his touch and he lifted his head from Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I didn’t...I didn’t think you remembered.”

“We did?”

And Crowley, beautifully, turned a beet-red color, even into the tips of his ears. “I-I didn’t...I wasn’t gonna mention it...You just---we’d been talking on the deck, and it was---it was late an’ we had been drinking---I’m so sorry, I just---”

“Crowley,” he interrupted softly, “It’s fine. I just...I hadn’t remembered. I think I pushed myself onto you, that night, no wonder you’d been angry at me that next day. I am...so sorry, I hadn’t realized what I’d done---”

And now it was Crowley’s turn to interrupt, “Angel. It’s okay. You have nothing to apologize for. I...maybe I let you...kiss me, before I remembered you were drunk, and that you...probably hadn’t meant to. And that was it. I wasn’t mad at you, I was...I was mad at me,” he whispered. “That I---that I wanted it, too,” he barely, barely breathed it out, and if his mouth hadn’t been so close to Aziraphale’s skin, he may never have heard it.

“Oh, Crowley,” he said, absolutely wrecked. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this. He couldn't stand here, loving Crowley, knowing that on some level, Crowley at least...wanted him, too. He couldn’t know that Crowley would put himself in danger for him, would say those words to him, and that he couldn’t love him the way he deserved to be loved. It was goddamn torture.

Aziraphale tightened his grip on Crowley’s hand, and scooted ever closer to his warm, sweaty body. 

Once they were practically just hugging, Crowley whispered into his shoulder, “I missed you.”

He waited, and he waited, and he finally said, “God, I missed you, too.” He knew he shouldn’t have said it. But he had to. Crowley kept throwing out these little moments of vulnerability, of pleading for anything back, and Aziraphale couldn’t just leave him like that.

He’d never leave him again.

_(Except, he would. You have to, Aziraphale. It’s for the best. For him.)_

They stayed like this for a good while, bodies pressed into each other, chests beating out similar, steady cacophonies of heartbeats that echoed in the other’s ribcage.

Eventually, Crowley murmured, seeming more relaxed than he’d seemed in days, “Angel.”

“Hm?”

“When you came in here, you were gonna say something,” he probed.

Aziraphale instantly tensed.

This was gonna hurt like hell.

“Y-yes. Um,” he struggled to find a way to start. “Maybe we should sit down?”

Crowley lifted his head from Aziraphale’s shoulder and looked at him suspiciously, before stepping away from their warm embrace. He looked down at their joined hands, but instead of releasing his hold on Aziraphale, he used it to pull him towards the bed. Crowley cleared away the mess of bedsheets on the bed until there was enough of a flat surface for him to recline on, and Aziraphale took the throne, still set by the bed from that night, years ago it seemed. He shuddered at the memory, Crowley wincing with every touch, his breath coming out in sharp painful bursts, like he’d had all the air punched out of him, again and again. He was brought back to the present again, when Crowley squeezed his hand, and released it.

“What’s going on, angel?” He said it carefully. Funny that he could already sense the minute expressions on Aziraphale’s face, the tiny tremble in his voice when he was worried about something.

He took a breath. “Anathema...I’ve been helping Anathema chart our way, the...the past couple days. We’ve just been sailing forward, making sure to avoid Royal ships and routes, best not to get ambushed now, you know,” he waited to see if Crowley would respond. Nothing. “And, I mean it’s been fine, it’s just Anathema was thinking, well you know, we’ve got to go _somewhere_ , you see, and---”

“Angel.”

For the thousandth time, Aziraphale tried to see through the blackness of those glasses, trying to see some hint of an emotion, some semblance of anything behind there, just to feel less alone. For the thousandth time, he saw nothing but his own desperate, pathetic reflection looking back at him.

“It’s time to take me home.”

The words sat in the room like a heavy weight, pulling down on both of them, threatening to sink them into the heart of the boat, into the sea. 

Crowley’s face, bravely, remained exactly the same. No movement. No words. No reaction. Just, after several, several moments, his jaw unhinged and he opened his mouth, and then simply said, “Okay. Right. Yeah...Okay.”

Aziraphale shifted in his seat. It hurt to love him. Goddammit, it hurt. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

“Right,” Crowley said again. Like his mind was on an endless loop of those three words, nothing else to say. Aziraphale wondered if Crowley had any idea what this felt like to Aziraphale. If he felt the same devastation, or if it was controlled relief of finally being rid of him, if it was anger at not helping him chart further maps and routes. He couldn’t tell. But he had to assume it was nothing at all. Because Crowley didn’t feel what Aziraphale felt. Crowley had seen plenty of adventures like this before, he’d seen it all, he’d done it all. Surely, this was just another milk run for him. One that got him hurt, maybe, but just another tick on his checklist of adventures. Soon, the scar on his arm and ribcage would blend into the map of other scars on his body, and he’d forget where or how he’d gotten it. The voyage will blend into one of a thousand other voyages just like it. Aziraphale would blend into just another one of a thousand other people who he was sure had been nicer, and more attractive, and more adventurous than he. He couldn’t have been the first, not to a man who looked like that. Surely other people had loved him and wanted him and had given him everything, and Aziraphale, round and meek and soft, would become just a blip in his memory, an annoyance to recall. 

_Oi, one time I caught a Royal I did, and he was a right pain in the ass. Almost got me killed. What was his name, again?_

_Mm, in any case, good riddance._

And it would be for the best. No matter that it would leave a gaping hole in Aziraphale’s life. A big, fat, Crowley-shaped hole that maybe he’d try to fill with food, or work, or books, but that would always gnaw in his subconscious until the day he died, alone and unloved. It’s what he deserved, really. After everything.

And at least, on that very last day of his, he could go thinking about how he’d done it for Crowley, and that he’d kept him safe, all these years. That if they couldn’t have been together, at the very least Aziraphale kept him safe enough that Crowley could love someone else someday. 

And that was, truly, good enough.

He’d been quiet for too long. And Crowley still hadn’t said anything else. “I’ll still help you find your...thing, if you like. I’ll help you chart it as much as I can, before I go back to London. If that’s…” Aziraphale murmured. “That’s what the deal was, right?”

Crowley tensed his jaw tight, and nodded his head dramatically. “Yup,” and he popped the ‘p’ loudly in the quiet room. “Yeah, sounds great. The thing. Right.”

They both sat there for a couple seconds, wondering what the hell to say next. Crowley, thank God, spoke first. Aziraphale could always count on Crowley to save him.

“Have you had dinner yet?” Crowley’s words came out in a nervous rush.

“Uh, no, dear I haven’t.”

“You should go...have dinner with everyone else. I wouldn’t wanna...keep you.” And Crowley winced, for what, Aziraphale was unsure.

“You’ll eat alone?”

“Nn-yeah, I haven’t really been eating much anyway. S’ fine,” he said with a wave of his hand.

“Oh, no, dear, you’ve got to eat,” Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he put a hand to his own chest. “It’ll help you heal faster. Your body needs fuel, you know. Go ahead and lie back.” Aziraphale stood up quickly from his seat, immediately forgetting their entire previous conversation and instead focusing on the glorious thought of getting to take care of Crowley for once.

“Oh, no, angel, wait,” Crowley started to protest as Aziraphale walked towards the table to retrieve the bowl and the whiskey, and then set the items on the little dresser beside the bed. As Crowley started sitting up further, Aziraphale put out a gentle, but forceful hand at Crowley’s chest to push him back down onto the sea of pillows at his back. 

“Angel, I’ll eat, fine, but you should go get food too, what if they run out before you get some? I wouldn’t want to be---” Crowley started in a lame attempt to fight back, and Aziraphale simply settled into the chair and grabbed at the bowl along with a silver spoon.

“They won’t run out, dear. Here,” and he shoved the bowl in Crowley’s face for him to take.

Except that when Crowley reached out to take it with his closest hand, he winced minutely and put extra effort into moving his hand forward to grasp at the bowl. _Shit, I sat on his left side._

“Okay, wait, dear. You know what, I’ll help you, is that alright?” Aziraphale asked, without waiting for a response. He immediately pulled back the bowl from Crowley’s left hand, that may have protested if it hadn’t still been a little weak, and he shifted from sitting on the chair to sitting at the edge of Crowley’s bed. Their hips were touching.

“Wait,” started Crowley. “You don’t...have to,” he whispered as Aziraphale dipped the spoon into the soup, and slowly brought it close to his lips. His warmth was so close, his eyes were so bright and blue this close up. It was...hard to resist.

Crowley’s lips opened without thinking, and Aziraphale pushed the spoon softly between his open mouth. He thought, lamely, that he wished it was him pushing past Crowley’s lips, making his mouth open like that. It felt nice, to take care of Crowley this way, but he was sure he could take care of Crowley very well in many other ways, too. 

_Focus, Aziraphale._

He tried to focus on keeping his face as neutral as possible, careful not to betray any trace of anything that might make Crowley uncomfortable. He was probably already uncomfortable, this close up, and from here Aziraphale was sure Crowley could see all the little imperfections in his face, in his body, with this lighting and this close. It was terrifying. To be seen.

His hands started to shake just a shade with the tension he was holding in his arms and his face, and as he pushed the spoon past warm, ready lips once again, he spilled a drop on Crowley’s lower lip.

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry, I just---” Aziraphale swiped his thumb against Crowley’s lip to catch the errant drop and then stopped, realizing their proximity. Aziraphale was touching his face. Their breaths were warm against each other’s faces. Their bodies were touching. He looked up at Crowley’s face, again searching for something he was sure he wouldn’t find, and was surprised to find that Crowley’s head seemed to be tilted and almost, almost could have been staring directly at his lips.

Shaking hands reached towards Aziraphale’s hips and gripped there softly, before Crowley said, “Maybe if you…might be easier…” he trailed off, completely breathless already from the simple touch.

Aziraphale turned to putty in his hands and allowed himself to be guided onto Crowley’s lap, one leg swinging over his hips and the other remaining on the other side of Crowley’s body. Somehow, Aziraphale had been guided to straddle Crowley’s hips, knees bent, kneeling against the bed, but hips resting on top of Crowley’s. There wasn’t even bedsheets to separate their bodies. They were...they were touching. Crowley’s hands were tight on Aziraphale’s hipbones, and the multiple points of contact were electric on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale wasn’t breathing.

“Is this alright?” Crowley breathed out, voice completely wrecked.

Aziraphale swallowed thickly and pushed his body down further on top of Crowley’s. He was still holding the bowl awkwardly in his hands, and the soup jumped lightly as Crowley instinctively shifted his hips upwards. He made a strangled, aborted noise deep in his throat.

“Is this okay?” Crowley panted, desperate already. Dizzy with it.

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes,” he barely whispered. “Yes, this is okay.”

Crowley rubbed quick, reverent circles into Aziraphale’s giving hips.

“If...if we had just one night, if we never,” Crowley spoke harshly, hands trembling, voice trembling. “...Would you…” he panted, “Would you want, with me? Would you---?” And his hips pushed up, just a shade. Aziraphale could feel everything beneath him. The movement of muscle. His warmth. The shake in Crowley’s fingers.The pressure in his own body.

Aziraphale opened his mouth.

“Hey, _Boss!_ ” A yell came from just outside the door, followed by a rapid succession of knocks on the bedroom door. Aziraphale jumped, and spilled some of the soup (not all of it, thank goodness) onto Crowley’s shirt, at the same time that Crowley jumped and released his death grip on Aziraphale’s hip bones. Aziraphale clumsily clambered off Crowley’s lap, and he was sure he had turned a deep, deep shade of burgundy in the span of all of two seconds. At least Crowley seemed to be suffering a similar fate, as he grasped at the sudden loss of warmth above him, pulled at his now wet shirt, and yanked himself up sharply in the bed, earning an additional wince of pain from that infernal wound.

Crowley panted loudly. “ _What, Adam?_ ” There was a distinct shake to his voice, but Aziraphale couldn’t be sure if it was anger or remnants of lust.

“Something important,” Adam yelled back, unaffected. “I’m comin’ in,” he announced.

Crowley looked pointedly at Aziraphale, who was already walking towards the dresser on the other side of the bed to put down the bowl and spoon so that he could leave immediately and avoid further embarrassment. However, before anyone else could move, Adam strolled in, unaware of the tension still hanging thick in the room.

“Boss, we got a problem.”

“ _Spit it out,_ Adam.” It wasn’t really Adam’s fault...but boy, did Crowley hate him right now.

“Red skies.” He said gravely.

Crowley groaned deeply, and put his face in his hand. “Oh, _fuck_ me,” and Aziraphale turned an even darker shade of red, hearing those words come out of Crowley’s mouth. That noise. He hoped Adam remained as oblivious as he seemed now, otherwise Aziraphale would have a _lot_ to explain for.

“Yep. Pretty big one, looks like. Tomorrow afternoon, night maybe.” 

Crowley kept his face hidden in his right hand, and had slowed his breathing down to a semi-regular rate. “Right,” he declared. “Okay, secure the ship. Advise the crew. We’ll deal with it in the morning.”

Adam left without another word, and pulled the door shut with a click that seemed to echo throughout the room. There was a large, empty void of silence for a long moment.

“What...what does that mean? Red skies?” Aziraphale muttered into the silence left in Adam’s wake.

Crowley’s face was still in his right hand, except now he was rubbing his temple softly with his fingertips, and had furrowed his brows together in a worrying shape.

“Thunderstorm. It means a thunderstorm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok hello everyone thanks for sticking around!!! this story keeps me sane on the weeks that my life is just balls to the wall insane and busy, and when i feel really really down i always just go back and reread old comments. y'all make my life, fr fr. thank you sm for still being here. i'd say we're maybe halfway through the story. it's gonna be great. i can't wait to hear what y'all have to say about this one. hit me with your theories/comments/predictions/etc.!!


	15. ophiuchus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> storms, no bueno  
> (also side note, please check the tags again, and i'll warn you that we deal with some heavy angsty stuff here, panic attacks, near-death experience (again, sorry), and detailed descriptions of scary storms so if any of that is not great, then please take care reading this okay? if you need a summary or something because you'd like to skip anything please send me a private message on tumblr @alwayscomewhenyoucall and i'll add a summary to the chapter okay. you just need to ask, no judgement, no worries, not a bother. love y'all)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,000 hits!!!!! I'm!!!!!!! just???????? OKAY
> 
> //
> 
> "sometimes, we cannot bear the things we crave."

“You should go to bed, Angel. You’re gonna need a good night’s rest, alright?” He sounded defeated. Exhausted.

“Right,” Aziraphale muttered quietly. In the span of one minute, he’d gone from desperately trying to keep his feelings under control while he spooned soup into Crowley’s mouth, to absolutely losing all hold over his body and his mind as he’d climbed on top of Crowley’s ( _hard, warm, strong_ ) body, to shock and embarrassment at Adam’s intrusion, and now a strange and awkward silence that hung heavy in the room at the news of an incoming storm. What could he say? 

“Right,” he repeated. “I’ll just...I’ll just go, then.” He shuffled his feet quietly across the room, and deposited the half-empty bowl of soup at the table near the door. 

He turned back to face Crowley, who still held his face in his hands and continued to rub at his temple roughly. Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, anything, _I’m sorry_ , _that was lovely_ , _could we do that again sometime?_ Instead he closed his mouth, slowly turned the doorknob, and walked out. 

_He wanted me._

_He...he asked._

Aziraphale wondered what saintly, angelic duties he must have performed in another life to have deserved that. Just an hour ago, he had been trying to convince himself that closeness was dangerous, and that Crowley could never want him the way he wanted him, and that even if Crowley had, on some level, wanted him, that he deserved so, so much better. And then to feel that desperation in his hands, his body under his, his shifting hips, _Jesus_. He’d wanted him. If...if Adam hadn’t walked in they might’ve….Aziraphale might’ve given in.

This was bad.

This was very, very bad. 

Aziraphale’s mind swam with questions. How could someone who looked like _that_ , like sin incarnate, like the child of Ares and Aphrodite, fire-red and beautiful beyond compare; how could someone like _that_ want someone like...someone like Aziraphale? Fussy, and fuller, and shy, and bookish. A _Royal_ , for Christ’s sake. A soldier who didn’t care for fighting. A man who’d rather stay in and thumb through constellation maps than sail and adventure and sword-fight. A man who had _hurt_ him. A man who continued to put him in danger by being here.

_I’ve got to get off this damn ship._

_Or next time...next time, I might give in._

_And for Crowley’s sake, we shouldn’t._

_He deserves better._

_He does._

He crawled into his own bed and peeled the covers back and over his body, unusually cold now from the sudden lack of warmth that Crowley had provided. He pushed a palm roughly over his trousers, willing his body to stop reacting to thoughts of Crowley, and asked his brain to please, please, please stop replaying the feelings of Crowley’s fingers gripping onto his hipbones and Crowley’s hot breath on his skin, and the words that had come out of his mouth, and that groan, that moan, those noises…

At this rate, he was never getting another full night’s rest again.

////

He awoke to the sound of seagulls cawing loudly outside his window. Aziraphale blinked his eyes open, and saw that he’d probably slept in a bit, surprisingly. The sunlight was streaming at a higher angle than usual, and rays of light danced across his bedsheets in tandem with the soft rocking of the boat. He reveled in the warmth for a moment, and realized that he probably wouldn’t wake like this again for a long while; London wasn’t exactly known for its warm, calm, quiet mornings. Most mornings it was fog, and clouds, and honking cars, and buses ambling by. It was lovely in its own way, but nothing like this.

He closed his eyes, basking in the warmth, realizing that he hadn’t awoken at all last night with nightmares, the first night since the...incident that he’d slept all through the night. Perhaps he was more exhausted than he thought; perhaps the closeness had assured Aziraphale’s unconscious mind that yes, Crowley was fine, he was safe, he was alive. If there was one silver lining here, maybe it was that. 

He thought he heard people outside yelling distant orders, and figured it was time to get out there and get to work. Apparently, things were afoot for the day. So he pulled his legs slowly out of the sheets, padded his feet across the room to slip some warm socks on, and got to dressing.

When he finally made it out of his room, he was bathed, dressed, and ready to work. He had begun to take on a bit of uniform aboard the ship; he was used to being told what to wear and what not to wear aboard the Royals ship, and although he was free here to wear what he liked, he was in part limited by what clothes they had for him on board. He had grown attached to a simple look of a white, long-sleeve shirt, and tan trousers. It was functional. And well...Crowley seemed to like it. Not that...not that he only dressed in a way to please Crowley, he thought with a bit of shame in the back of his mind, he just...liked the way Crowley’s eyes raked up and down his body sometimes when he thought Aziraphale wasn’t looking. 

Anyway. 

He looked across the deck and saw people moving around slowly, carrying boxes into the lower levels and pulling out tarps and nets and anchors from hidden spaces around the ship.

“Good--” Crowley cleared his throat loudly, “good morning. Angel.” Aziraphale jumped slightly at the noise, and turned to find Crowley at his left shoulder. “Sleep well?” Aziraphale could tell he was trying for a casual tone, but his voice sounded strained and shaky to his ears, and he seemed to be trying to carefully avoid Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Yes, thank you. You, uh...you too?” Aziraphale wasn’t sure why _Crowley_ was nervous, but it confused him all the more. He wasn’t sure what to say anymore. What he _could_ say.

“Mm-yeah. Yup. Great,” he stumbled. He took a pause. “So, listen,” he started, and Aziraphale thought maybe he would want to talk about last night, and oh God, he was _not_ ready for that conversation. “Looks like there’s a pretty big storm comin’ in. Just there,” and he pointed somewhere far in the distance, directly forward in the ship’s current trajectory. Aziraphale breathed out a deep sigh of relief at the safety of the topic, and followed Crowley’s finger with his eyes. He could see the beginnings of dark, thick clouds rolling in quickly along the horizon. 

“Probably here by tonight, if not earlier. It’s nothin’ to worry about, really, we’ve just got to make sure we keep this thing afloat and we’ll just sail right through it. It’ll be heavy, but nothing we can’t handle. The crew will secure the ship throughout the day, and then we’ll do a little work during, to keep the boat steady, and then we just bunker down, really. Nothin’ to it.” Crowley’s voice was careful and soft, like steadying a spooked horse into submission and calm. There was a fragility in it, too, that Aziraphale had never heard before in Crowley’s voice. It was strange. It was comforting, a bit.

“I’ve been through some storms myself in the past, I’m sure it will be fine, Crowley,” Aziraphale tried to match his tone. He wasn’t sure who it was for: Crowley, or himself. “Is there, uh, anything I can...help with?”

“No, no, angel. Not too much to do, really. You can take the day off.” _Sadness,_ Aziraphale realized suddenly. That’s what lingered underneath every word Crowley uttered. Sadness, somehow, and fear.

“Maybe I could help you with charts?” Aziraphale suggested.

Crowley finally looked at his face, and held a blank stare.

Aziraphale tried again. “To your thing? The..thing?” He said with uncertainty. 

“The arrangement,” Crowley finally realized, breathing out harshly and looking down at his bony, dirty hands. “Right. Yes. Nnn-okay.”

Aziraphale waited for a moment while Crowley seemed to gather some thoughts. His face, strangely, went through several confusing expressions before settling back on blank, unfeeling.

“So, uh...where do I start? What...exactly is it I’m looking for?” 

“It’s, uh...I---well, follow me,” Crowley said quietly, and without looking back at Aziraphale began walking towards his own room. Aziraphale followed him silently, and when he walked into the room he saw that everything was just about the same as he’d left it the night before. The bowl was in its same resting place. The throne sat right beside Crowley’s bed. And---

Ah, the bed.

Best not to go there.

Crowley walked past the bed and to the ornate desk he kept at the far end of the room, near the huge window at the edge of the room that was almost floor to ceiling and stretched for about seven or eight feet. Aziraphale remembered that first day he’d been here; struggling with his binds and looking for a way out, he’d still taken a moment to gaze at the impressive view that Crowley, the Captain then, probably got every sunrise and every sunset. For a split second, he’d envied him and his freedom. And then he’d remembered, he had a knife strapped to his thigh.

Aziraphale shook his head out of the old memories; it seemed his mind was everywhere today. Maybe some work would actually do him some good. 

Crowley walked around the desk to open some drawers and pulled out stacks and stacks of maps, hand-drawn illustrations, and cryptic codes.

“Okay, so…” Crowley muttered under his breath, and shuffled papers around the desk. He seemed to be having some trouble figuring out how to start. “There’s this...thing. And it’s ...important to me. But I’m...I’m not entirely sure it’s real, see? So it’s been...hard to find.” He glanced at Aziraphale to check for comprehension, and instead found obvious confusion. Crowley screwed his eyebrows together in frustration and looked back down at his long fingers stroking over the many sheets strewn across the desk’s surface. He knew what it sounded like. But, Aziraphale had asked. That was the deal. The Arrangement.

He kept going. “I know it’s...but it has to be real, okay? And I’ve got this,” and he pulled out a sheet from underneath a stack of ancient, yellowed scripts. “This is the most solid information I’ve got about it. It seems that if we follow this constellation here,” and he pointed to a crude drawing of a sort of snake on a piece of parchment, burned in some places, “that it will lead us to the amulet.”

Aziraphale stared at the drawing, certain he’d seen it before. He processed the words again carefully. “The amulet?” He looked up at Crowley’s face, closer to his than he’d thought, and Crowley’s eyes widened behind the sunglasses. 

Crowley opened his mouth quickly and stuttered, “N-no, well, mm-okay, so---yes. Yeah. It’s a. Yeah. An amulet. It’s not important.”

Aziraphale looked at him at him suspiciously, and wondered why it had been so important to Crowley in the beginning to find this thing, and why an amulet could have such significance to him.

“Is it...like, treasure? Or…?” Aziraphale ventured carefully.

“Nn-yeah. Sure. Treasure. I just. Really want it. Anyway,” he said in his most unconvincing voice. Aziraphale felt like he’d known him a thousand years already, easily able to recognize when Crowley was happy, or scared, or nervous. And when he was fibbing. But, he guessed it wasn’t really his place to ask; the deal was to find the thing. Not ask about it. Right. Whatever it was or what it was for, Aziraphale owed that much to Crowley. After everything.

“Right,” Aziraphale said doubtfully. “You know, I think I’ve seen this before. But it’s missing something.”

“Right! Yes,” Crowley exclaimed excitedly, and then seemed to try to control his voice once again. “Yes. Well. I had thought, maybe I was looking for Hydra, here,” and he pulled out some crusty, crumpled maps. “I’m...not much of a star...person, really, so I tried to make sense of the constellations and followed it but...nothing. I’ve never found anything helpful surrounding this particular constellation. So I think I’m missing something, I just...I don’t know anymore. I don’t know where else to look. I’ve charted every island along that trajectory. Nothing.”

Aziraphale looked at all the sheets across the desk, and wondered how long it had taken Crowley to compile this information. Even for a navigator, this stuff was advanced. He looked up at Crowley’s face, covered in light, faded scars and tiny wrinkles around his eyes and his mouth that betrayed his age, just a bit. Aziraphale, on other days, had loved to watch them shift and stretch around his face as he talked. As he laughed. When his mouth had gone slack with Aziraphale above him… Now, Aziraphale tried to imagine a younger, brighter Crowley comparing maps and traveling across seas on the quest of a young man. He wished he had known him then. He wished he had known him always. He wished he would someday get to see how his body softened and aged with time. A life together, in the sun. That would be nice.

He looked back down at the drawing, and pulled it closer to himself. “I think...I don’t think this is Hydra, love.”

Crowley glanced at him sharply. “You think?” Crowley almost missed the endearment in his shock at the statement. Almost. 

“I think you’re missing Ophiuchus.”

“The...what?” Crowley looked surprised, and more confused by the second. 

“I’ll have to...it looks like something else, I think. Can I take these? I have a hunch, I could work on it today and maybe have some news for you tonight? Is that okay?”

Crowley’s face shifted slowly into a wide, face-splitting grin. “Is that okay? That’s better news than I’ve heard in ages, angel, of course that’s alright. Wow,” he breathed out in relief and smiled down at his drawings. “Yeah, take what you need. That’s great. Wow. Right,” and he looked back up at Aziraphale’s face in amazement. For a brief second, he looked down at Aziraphale’s lips, maybe six inches from his own, and his smile faltered just a bit. He quickly snatched his body back and straightened his back formally. “Right. Thank you, Aziraphale. You...do that. I’ll be outside, if you need me. Thank you,” he repeated with sincerity. Aziraphale could feel the authenticity behind the words, and he got the feeling they weren’t words he said very often. And he’d received them twice in ten seconds. 

But he also couldn’t help but feel a sharp sting of pain as Crowley jerked away from the proximity to Aziraphale’s body. _He regrets it already, see? He just doesn’t know how to tell you._

“Of course, Crowley. I’ll get to it, then.” He pulled out the chair at the desk, also a throne-looking thing ( _Drama queen,_ thought Aziraphale with a fondness that surprised even his own internal monologue) and sat to sift through the papers to organize them into something legible.

He felt, but didn’t see, Crowley walk away from him slowly and to the door. He heard Crowley creak open the door, and then didn’t hear him walk away. It took Aziraphale a moment to notice, mind already reeling through everything he knew about constellations to help with the charts, so by the time he realized he never heard Crowley’s receding footsteps and looked up, he just caught a glimpse of the last of Crowley’s glimmering red curls disappearing behind the closing door, pushed closed with the softest click. He felt an ache, a deep, deep ache that started somewhere deep behind his sternum and traveled through his chest cavity, up to his throat and down to this heavy, dark feeling in his stomach, and he steeled himself against the pain. 

_It’s for him. It’s for the best._

_You don’t deserve him._

_He deserves better._

He fought the tight knot in his throat and looked back down at the sheets at his fingertips. He took a moment to blink away the sudden blurriness in his eyes, and got to work.

//////

Six hours had passed, and Aziraphale was going to throw up. He’d been working tirelessly, comparing charts and maps and reference volumes. Some of them had been outdated and provided conflicting information that he then had to sift through carefully. Some maps only included some constellations, and they looked different according to each artist. At one point he’d gone back to his room to collect more maps and paper and quills to make appropriate measurements and markings. He’d drawn new charts, and more after that, and then crumpled them all. It was all wrong. 

But finally, at hour six, he’d gotten somewhere. Not a definitive answer, but a direction. A clue. A Hail Mary.

Right around the time he’d started feeling a dangerous, reeling nausea at the boat’s movements. He’d been on the sea for many years as a Royal, more than a decade at this point, and he’d _never_ experienced a storm like this. Normally, the Royals were careful to keep a close eye on weather and storm patterns to avoid any damage to their precious (expensive) cargo, not that they especially cared for the soldiers aboard. And Aziraphale’s brigade had mostly stuck to calmer waters near shorelines, not much for transporting cargo but more so for security of the shorelines and for their mere presence to command respect along the waters.

But this, oh Lord, was something new entirely. As he glanced behind him at Crowley’s huge window, he could see that the sky had darkened significantly and even though it was still only the beginnings of evening, the sky had turned a staticky charged charcoal color that swirled viciously with heavy, rolling clouds. 

The water beneath them, well. That was something else altogether. For a start, it no longer seemed to rest beneath them. The waves were so immense that with every roll, they seemed to loom large over the ship and threaten to crash over it and bring it down, but the boat simply rolled with it, and tipped to dizzying angles to rise with the water, and then crashed down briskly as the wave passed. 

Aziraphale could barely even keep his quills from rolling around dangerously across the desk anymore, and he decided that if he kept trying to work, he’d sooner spoil all his hard work by throwing up all over it. He decided quickly that it was not worth it. He’d continue tomorrow. For now, he hurriedly stuffed all the papers back into the drawers without much care for what went where, and stumbled to his feet clumsily. 

He wasn’t sure whether it was worse to feel the rocking and be unable to time the dips and highs of the floor under him, or if it was worse to watch the waves threaten to consume the ship second after second, and to be able to predict which wave would be the one to kill them all. In either case, he needed Crowley. There was a pit in his stomach: nausea, fear, dread, he didn’t know anymore. And he needed to feel someone else with him. 

Mostly, he needed to make sure Crowley was okay. He knew he was, logically, but he felt that tug on his heartstrings, as he often did, that pressure beneath his Adam’s apple, when he remembered the terror at seeing Crowley bleeding out underneath him. To feel his body going clammy and cold under his fingertips. 

The memories surfaced often, and most of the time unbidden. But he always had to succumb to it, to wonder if Crowley was alive. If he was safe. Sometimes it happened first thing in the morning, he’d gasp and scramble around his bedsheets and he wouldn’t breathe. Often it happened while he was sleeping, and he’d awake from one of those horrid nightmares, and he wouldn’t breathe. Sometimes, he’d be looking right at Crowley, and he’d have the fleeting thought that this was all in his head, and really Crowley had died that day, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. It was exhausting. And this, this was quickly turning into one of those times. He began to tremble deep in his bones, and his breath came quick and short, a shade from hyperventilation. He needed to see Crowley, right now. Right now.

The desperation took hold of his heart and clenched dangerously around it, panic setting in quickly in his body, rushing through his veins. He stumbled through the empty corridors almost tripping in his hurry, and burst open the door to the deck. The wind slapped at his face hard, and there was a constant spray of water splashed up from waves crashing along the side of the boat in tandem with the heavy, fat drops that fell ceaselessly from the sky onto the wooden floors. He pulled the door shut, hard, and looked around the deck crawling with sailors and looking a lot like an ant farm in the midst of destruction. 

He knew all the sailors at this point, Anathema and Newt, Sergeant Shadwell, and Madame Tracy, Adam, and Pepper, and Brian, Wensleydale, and countless others he’d met over the weeks together on the ship. But right now, in his moments of desperation, he saw no one. He recognized no faces, and found no comfort in any of their distracted glances. He only wanted red hair right now, warm touches. Eyes that he was sure were soft and warm beneath what now had become a comforting black of his sunglasses always present. 

He whipped his head around, already drenched and messy gilden-white curls now dripping and limp against his forehead.

“Crowley,” he whispered to himself as he recognized far off at the end of the dock, red locks weighed down uselessly along the length of Crowley’s soaked shirt. Even from here, Aziraphale could see how the dark shirt had become pitch black now that it was wet, and clung to his every moving muscle underneath. He stumbled across the deck towards Crowley, feet crossing each other accidentally with every wave that hit too hard, and he reached out blindly for things to grab hold of. He didn’t look down at his feet, and didn’t watch for people in his way. He had eyes for only his goal, and he’d be damned if anything got in his way. 

When he finally reached Crowley he reached blindly for his waist and Crowley jumped slightly at the touch, soft even through the hardness of everything around them. 

Crowley whipped his body around quickly at the grab, and suddenly was being engulfed in a tight hold, suddenly grappling against an armful of Angel.

“Angel?” Crowley yelled over the waves, confusion clear in his voice. When he got no answer, he spoke directly into Aziraphale’s ear, taking on a more empathetic tone. “Aziraphale? You alright?” 

Aziraphale gripped Crowley impossibly tightly, like a lifeline, and held one arm around his waist and another over his shoulder. It wasn’t a hug; it was an embrace. A lifeline. He was shaking, hard, and he hoped Crowley couldn’t feel it amidst the heavy rain, and he hoped Crowley couldn’t hear the quick, labored breaths against his shoulder over the thunder and the lightning that threatened to slice rips in the fabric of the universe with their strength. 

“Hey, I’ve got you, it’s okay,” Crowley soothed into Aziraphale’s ear, and he rocked him gently. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He shushed gently into Aziraphale’s temple until his breathing slowed down. The world went on around them, violently, but they were in a world apart. Together.

After a minute of standing there, Crowley tried again, without pulling away or moving them at all. “Angel, it’s alright. I’m here. Are you okay?”

Aziraphale nodded quietly. He continued to rock in Crowley’s arms, and he felt a small wave of embarrassment at clinging to Crowley like this, in the middle of everyone, in the middle of something Crowley was obviously in the middle of handling. He was _working_. He didn’t even want Aziraphale, and here he was, practically climbing on top of him, keeping him from doing what he needs to do. 

Aziraphale released the death grip he had on by just a shade Crowley and said, with all the dignity he could muster at the moment, “I’m sorry, I just---I needed to make sure you were...okay. I thought…”

“Hey,” he soothed. “I’m okay. I am. Look, I’m fine.” He pulled back from Aziraphale just far enough for them to see each other’s faces, and his mouth twisted into a soft little smile. Aziraphale looked at him, and he let Crowley’s smile pull a small one onto his own face. He loved him. God, he loved him. He closed his eyes at another fresh wave of nausea as the boat rocked, and the memory of blood flashed through his brain again. The smile melted off his face and turned to a grimace.

“You should stay inside, angel. I can handle this, okay? I have to stay here for a bit and make sure everything’s ready for when the real storm hits, alright?” Aziraphale pulled his head back harshly at the words, and his eyebrows shot impossibly high on his face. _The_ real _storm?_ “It’s okay, I promise,” Crowley seemed to sense the panic surging back through Aziraphale’s body. “Once everything’s all taken care of, we’ll all hunker down inside, and we’ll just wait it out. I’ll find you, and we’ll all be okay. You can keep a very close eye on me then, deal? Sound good?”

Goddamn it, Aziraphale couldn’t help but love this lovely creature. _I’ll find you_. If this storm didn’t kill him, Crowley’s words of comfort might. 

It should have been almost impossible to hear, over the loud crashing of waves against the hard wood of the ship, over the roar of rain constant on the deck, over the blinding, crashing reverberations that the thunder sent through their bodies, but every person on the ship turned at the sharp shriek that came from far behind Crowley. It was Pepper.

She leaned heavily over the railing of the ship and screamed hoarsely, “ _Adam!_ ”

Crowley pushed himself roughly out of Aziraphale’s embrace and the words rushed out of him, “Get inside, angel, now.” 

He sprinted towards Pepper at the edge and pulled her back by the shoulders roughly. Anathema had appeared just as suddenly, and peered over the tipping edge of the ship. A hundred feet down, a hand could be seen flailing over a massive, black wave, and then disappeared completely without a trace under the void of the sea. 

“ _Rope, now, anchors, move!_ ” Crowley started to command at the top of his lungs, his voice like gravel already with all the yelling and with the emotion hiding wrecked just beneath it all. Adam was like a son to him, if he’d ever had any indication for that sort of thing. He reached around blindly for ropes that someone was handing him, and cursed his weakened arm for the thousandth time that day. He shoved the rope instead into someone else’s arms. 

He whipped his head around for a second, making sure Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen. 

And his heart plummeted when he found him a millisecond later, climbed atop the balcony, precariously leaning over the edge.

“ _ANGEL,_ ” he screamed and stumbled forward to grab him, just as Aziraphale jumped off the edge, and straight down into the icy, crashing water beneath them. 

“ _ANGEL, no----_ ” he fought desperately against the arms holding him back, almost carrying him with the force of Crowley pushing away. “ _Anathema, let me go,_ ” he said breathlessly, lungs heaving with panic for the first time all night, eyes searching wildly in the water beneath for a mess of curls, for pale blue eyes, for the sparkle of a gold band somewhere in the waters. 

“You _cannot_ pull them both up and swim to safety with one arm, Crowley, you just can’t, it’s _suicide_ ,” Anathema growled into his ear, still struggling against him roughly, just barely keeping him from jumping over the edge himself. “ _Save them,_ ” she growled instead, and waited for him to stop struggling in her arms. He looked over at her, heart still in his throat. He took a moment to thank the Gods that be that they’d sent him Anathema, and he yelled even as his voice broke, “ _Ropes, now, god damn it! Anchors over, now!_ ”

It only took them about five minutes, maybe ten, to retrieve them. Crowley was an expert sailor, thank God, Satan, someone, anyone. He threw anchors over in the right places at the right time and not a second too late, and he fastened ropes and pulleys across the entire ship and fashioned a complex system to get them attached to ropes and up back into the ship. Aziraphale had found Adam, and kept him above water as much as he was able over the unforgiving weight of the entire sea’s dominant rage. When they’d managed to get them both back up onto the ship, Crowley fussed over both of them with shaking hands. He slapped Adam heavily across the back until he coughed out some water, and he cupped Aziraphale’s face in his palm and bid him to say something, anything. He wouldn’t. He was just trembling, staring straight ahead. They both were trembling. Crowley wondered how cold the waters had been. They must be in shock. 

Crowley picked up Adam first, and got him to his feet carefully. Anathema took hold of him instead, and the Them crowded around him as well to ask questions and poke and prod him until he started moving again. 

Crowley yelled over the commotion, “Everyone back inside, we’re done. _Now,_ ” he growled menacingly. They all began to scutter indoors, and Crowley glanced at Anathema. She was now also joined by Newt, who combed her hair back from where it currently clung to her cheek. As he opened his mouth to say something, Anathema said all in a rush, “I’ve got him, he’s okay. Take care of Aziraphale,” she said and nodded her head in his direction, where he still sat on the ground, heaving and staring forward. Crowley looked back at Anathema and gave her a grateful look that said everything he couldn’t say right now. Anathema nodded, understanding, and turned away with Adam, holding him up with one arm and Newt stepping in to carry him on the other side. The Them hurried ahead of them, opening doors and already gathering blankets and tying last minute knots on ropes as they scampered inside. 

Crowley looked back at Aziraphale, and gathered him gently in his arms. “It’s okay, angel, you’re okay.” He placed his arm under Aziraphale’s arm, and then placed his other arm under Aziraphale’s thighs. He picked him up without resistance and cradled him like a child against his chest. Aziraphale pressed his purple lips against Crowley’s neck, and he winced at the clammy cold he felt there. Crowley felt like he was carrying a block of ice. Even Aziraphale’s breath came out cold against his shoulder. He hated it. 

“I’m sorry, angel, I’m so sorry. I’ve got you now, it’s okay.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY MOLY y'all.....you all are so lovely and so wonderful and i love you all SO MUCH. thank you for supporting me and my work this is absolutely unreal. you make me the happiest girl in the world frfr. thank you for everything. i hope you're all taking care amidst the everything that's happening right now, hopefully this helps ease your quarantine a bit, if that's something you're dealing with right now. tbh i'll probably have another update soon because i feel a bit evil about where i left it, and im also quarantined until further notice so i have a LOT of free time now.  
> second note, if you have any other fics or blogs to recommend please feed me those to keep me from going insane with cabin fever. stay safe everyone!! yell at me in the comments!!  
> (LAST thing, HUGEEEE shoutout to [@Aziraphales-Library](https://aziraphales-library.tumblr.com/) for including a link to my work!!! great blog, super recommend.)  
> okay i think that's quite enough lol, love y'all so much!!! can't wait to see what you think of this one!


	16. don't you dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> less action, more pining and worship, really. i am SO sorry i keep torturing my characters with near-death experiences, it's not my fault they're morons okay? also we inch closer to a big plot thing...any theories????

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "sometimes i picture this happy life  
> burning in the depth of time   
> where sadness is a myth to me  
> is that something you can give to me?"  
> //  
> you know what, screw my posting schedule. it's the end times. buckle up, people.

Crowley held Aziraphale’s body even closer to his own than it already was, barely able to feel Aziraphale’s heartbeat from beneath his ribcage. Although that might also be because Crowley’s own heart was still thudding out an uneven cacophony of horror at that plunging feeling of watching Aziraphale jump.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid angel. Too good for us all; I could have told you you didn’t need to do that. I could have held you back if you’d just looked back at me first._

_But you didn’t. You just jumped._

_And I love you so, so, so much for that._

_And now that goodness is gonna get you killed._

He pushed open doors with his feet and slammed them shut with the combined force of his body and the weight of Aziraphale still in his arms, and there were loud squelches that echoed down the corridor as the water ran off Crowley’s hair and clothes and onto the floor, and his boots squeaked loudly underneath him. Water pooled in fat droplets on his black shades, and he struggled to see through the streaks.

“I’ve got you, Aziraphale, I’ve got you,” he murmured under his breath as he walked, mostly to comfort himself really. Aziraphale said nothing, just pressed tighter into the warmth of Crowley’s chest.

Crowley passed Aziraphale’s room and carried him directly into his own room, still a bit disheveled from before, and laid him gingerly on the throne beside the bed. As he pulled away, Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he tightened his grip on Crowley’s soaked shirt.

“I know, I know, but we have to get you dry clothes first, okay? I’ll be right back,” he said as he gently took Aziraphale’s hands and pried his fingers from his shoulders. He hurried to his dresser and pulled out random pieces of clothing that looked warm-ish, but honestly anything that wasn’t soaking wet would be nice right now.

He walked over to Aziraphale with new garments clutched tightly in his fist and set it hesitantly down on the bed.

“Okay, I...I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable but I have to get these off of you. Is...is that okay?” Crowley bent down to look right into Aziraphale’s eyes and saw no comprehension there.

“Angel? Just a...a yes or a no, or just like a nod? Anything, c’mon, please,” he begged. He’d never begged in his life before Aziraphale. Now he found himself saying ‘please’ at an alarmingly exponential rate. He wanted to be annoyed about that, he really, really did, but turns out he really wasn’t. Not if it was for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s eyes moved a bit to the side then, and seemed to focus on Crowley’s for a moment. He moved his head in just the slightest, enough to indicate acceptance, barely able to pass for a nod, but Crowley felt like singing at the simple reaction.

“Good, angel, real good. Hello,” he cooed. “Okay, here we go.” He carefully peeled the offending garments from Aziraphale’s shuddering body, and tried to move as quickly as possible. He thought that maybe, on some other occasion, Crowley may have daydreamed about getting to peel off Aziraphale’s layers like this, and revel in the touching of smooth, unmarked skin. But now, all he felt was nausea at the thought that he could've lost it all, just like that; one thunderstorm and gone forever. 

His skin shouldn’t be that cold. He shouldn’t be shaking so much. His lips shouldn’t be that shade, and Crowley couldn’t even see that lively spark his eyes always carried dancing across the blue tinge of them. It was wrong, so wrong.

He moved clinically, and tossed every piece of cloth onto the floor with a satisfying thud. He pried his shoes off, and puddles of water formed on the floor where he set them down. He peeled socks off reverently. He removed his trousers with difficulty, originally having kneeled to better access his legs but eventually having to stand at a crouch to gain leverage, the damn pants were clinging too tight to his skin, and Aziraphale wasn’t exactly in a state to help. He moved to take off his boxers and stuck his fingers under the waistband with a breath, and looked up pointedly at the ceiling as he gently pried them off. Once Aziraphale was fully naked, he grabbed a towel from his bathroom and toweled him down, avoiding certain areas out of politeness and averting his eyes carefully, and then eased him gently into a new pair of loose pajama-type pants and Crowley’s biggest shirt that hung off Aziraphale’s shoulders and made him look impossibly small in Crowley’s room. Once he was fully clothed again, he left once again to retrieve as many blankets as he could find.

And all the while, he spoke to Aziraphale.

“I’m not looking, see, it’s fine.”

“There you go, all warm now, much better right?”

“Blankets, blankets... _Satan_ , where in the heavens did I put those?”

“Oh, here we go, angel, you’re all set now, I promise.”

“You’re gonna be sweating, soon, you’ll see.”

“Just keep listening to my voice, okay? You’re okay. Just stay with me, please.”

“C’mon. Stay with me.”

Once he’d arranged at least five or six heavy blankets on the bed, he pried the trembling being onto the bed and started to tuck him in. Aziraphale’s eyes closed gratefully, forehead wrinkling in the pleasure of suddenly being surrounded by heavy warmth. 

Crowley bent down to Aziraphale’s face, blue eyes still closed, and muttered softly, “Much better, see, I told you. You’re gonna be just fine,” and then added under his breath, and his voice wavered, “If you die...I’ll...Don’t you dare, angel. Don’t you dare leave me here, okay? You’re gonna be fine.” His voice shook. His fingers shook. He reached down further to press a hard kiss to Aziraphale’s temple, and to Crowley’s surprise a pale, pale hand shot out from underneath the covers to cup his face. Aziraphale opened his eyes with difficulty and whispered, just barely, “Stay.”

Like Crowley could ever say no.

“Okay. Yeah, okay.” He swallowed thickly, and started to climb into the bed next to him, only to realize he was still soaking, too. He’d forgotten in his panic to keep himself warm, idiot. The last thing Aziraphale needed was an ice block to cuddle up to. 

“Just a second, angel, hold on,” he rushed out before basically running to his dresser and hurriedly undressing and throwing on his sleep wear, which was just a soft downy loose shirt and loose trousers, much like Aziraphale’s. He didn’t stop to think that Aziraphale could see him undressing from where he was. He didn’t care right now. Aziraphale needed him, that was the only thing that mattered.

He pattered over to the other side of the bed and started to climb over the sheets respectfully, but Aziraphale made trembling, stunted movements to get him underneath the covers. As soon as Crowley slid his feet underneath the sheets, Aziraphale was on him like a leech, grappling over his body to seek as much warmth as he could get. 

Crowley tried not to wonder how lovely this would have been in another circumstance, and he wondered if he’d ever get a chance to do this right with him.

_If Aziraphale made it through the night._

Crowley returned the embrace easily, and rubbed his arms up and down Aziraphale’s back roughly, trying desperately to generate more warmth and friction. He was way too cold. This wasn’t right.

“Angel, what the fuck,” he whispered harshly, “you’re so cold. Shh, it’s okay,” and he cradled his head deeply into his chest. He wouldn’t stop shaking, and shaking, and shaking.

After a minute, Crowley pulled a hand up to cup Aziraphale’s face and angle it towards his own, and saw that his lips were the same shade of purple that they had been on the deck, and his skin had taken on a sickly shade of pale blue under the light freckles that once dotted his skin in the sunlight. 

“Oh, fuck no, please don’t do this to me, Aziraphale,” his voice cracked, and he felt like crying. “Okay, you know what? We’re going old school.” He pulled away from Aziraphale, as much as he was able, and yanked off his shirt with one hand. It tugged at the gauze still on his arm, and he yanked that off too with a grimace. It was soaked anyway, and the wound was almost closed at this point. He’d live. “You’re gonna have to get cool about my tattoos real quick here. Sorry, angel,” he murmured under his breath, as he reached under the covers to grab Aziraphale’s shirt and pulled it over his head. His curls were soaking into the pillow, but had almost started to dry. That was good. 

He thought about taking his trousers off, and Aziraphale’s, but figured since neither of them had put fresh boxers on it might be a step too far for Aziraphale, especially in this state. He didn’t even think about how it would be the first time they’d been together like that, he just thought Aziraphale wouldn’t like to wake up to that in the morning, and that it would make him uncomfortable.

If he woke up in the morning.

_Fuck._

Once Crowley had tossed the shirts aside, he pulled Aziraphale back into his chest and Aziraphale made a noise that sounded like a sob at the heat of Crowley’s skin against his clammy skin. 

“I know, I know,” he soothed, and continued to rub his hands roughly up and down his back. He’d left a lamp on so he could see Aziraphale through the glasses that he surprisingly still had on, after everything. (Those glasses had been with him for years, and they certainly weren’t about to fail him after a measly thunderstorm. They knew better than to fall off his face at this point.)

He looked down at Aziraphale, and couldn’t see his face anymore tucked into his chest, just the blond mess of curls, slightly yellow now that they were damp, shaking against his sternum.

He was shaking less, he noticed carefully.

Still a lot, but...less. 

He took this as a good sign, and freed one hand from Aziraphale’s body to pull the blankets tighter over their bodies. 

“I’ve got you, angel. I’ve got you.”

Crowley didn’t get a lot of sleep that night. He rubbed at Aziraphale’s body constantly, generating as much warmth as he could. Every time he’d drift off, he’d awaken with a jolt a few seconds later, and every time cradled him even closer than seemed physically possible. 

At one point late in the night, Crowley dozed off, and awoke gently. He opened his eyes slowly, forgetting for just a second. As he shifted, he felt the heavy weight of Aziraphale’s body half-draped over his, and realized with a stab that he wasn’t moving anymore.

“Angel?” he murmured with a hoarse tremble in his voice.

_Oh God, oh God._

“ _Angel!_ ” he said loudly into the echoing room, as he pushed Aziraphale’s hair up and out of his face to better see his head. 

Aziraphale groaned softly, and shifted further onto his chest. At the shift, Crowley felt warm breaths now sliding over his ribcage rhythmically, softly. 

He was breathing. 

He was okay. 

He’d stopped shaking.

He was okay.

Crowley breathed out a hard sigh of relief that shook even as it came out, and a hot tear surprised him by rolling suddenly out of his eye. 

“You’re okay, angel. Okay. You’re okay.”

He swiped roughly at his cheek to clear the moisture that now ran in a hot stripe across his face.

Finally, he drifted off to sleep.

///

When Aziraphale awoke, the first thing he registered in his sleep-drunk mind was being very, very warm. Unusually so. His eyes were still closed, and he basked in the serenity of the quiet morning. 

He shifted a leg to rearrange himself a bit when he noticed that against his own leg was someone else’s, thin and muscled. 

Aziraphale’s eyelids ripped open suddenly and his whole body tensed as he lifted his head from a sturdy chest and looked at the thing he was laying on top of.

A very nice thing, he might add.

Two inches from his head was Crowley’s own sleeping face, slack and calm in his deep sleep. His lips were open the tiniest sliver, and his glasses sat skewed across his eyes. The way they had shifted in his sleep, the bridge of them was resting at an angle, and it allowed Aziraphale his first glance at Crowley’s eyes, albeit still closed. The eyelids lay softly over his eyes, and his eyebrows that were normally pulled into marvelous shapes that matched his scowls and frowns and little smiles were now resting calmly over tanned, freckled skin. 

His hair was laid out around his pillow sloppily, and still managed to look like a dream. It had dried into tiny waves that erupted from his head, a bit frizzy from having been slept on in this way. 

And, Lord, he was shirtless. For the third time, Aziraphale was getting an unrestrained look at all the tattoos and sinewy muscles he kept carefully covered up underneath his silky shirts. The ink sat heavy in some parts and a bit faded in others, but together they created a beautifully orchestrated tapestry across his body. It was glorious, and so up close.

Aziraphale realized, belatedly, that he was almost literally sat right on top of him; his chest was practically draped over Crowley’s, and his head had previously been resting directly over his heart. His legs were deeply intertwined with Crowley’s, and one leg sat neatly in between both of the Captain’s. Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel like they were two puzzle pieces that slotted together perfectly; where Aziraphale held swells, Crowley had hollows. Their ribs filled the spaces in the other’s ribcage, and Aziraphale’s rounded hips softened and bent around the sharp jut of Crowley’s underneath his trousers. It was lovely. 

Aziraphale took a long, long, long moment to drink it all in. The soft swell of Crowley’s chest as he breathed in, and the even softer sigh that he released with every breath out. The ink-black snake tattoo at his temple for once unmoving, sleeping as soundly as its master by his side. Downy leg hair peeking out from the ankle of Crowley’s trousers rubbing against Aziraphale’s calf. The way Crowley seemed to be curled towards Aziraphale. How at home he looked beneath Aziraphale.

He wished every morning was like this.

He wished he could wake up to this every day, and that he could hold Crowley as long as he liked, and that he could kiss him awake with prying lips, and that he could take care of him however he liked, give him whatever he wanted, before they even slithered out of bed together. That’s what he wanted.

And he knew he’d never get it.

So after he got his fill (like he could ever, ever be satisfied with just this), he carefully placed his head back onto Crowley’s sternum, and pressed his ear to Crowley’s steady beating heart. He wrapped his arm around the Captain, and closed his eyes again before slowly, gently drifting back off to sleep.

//

Crowley awoke not long after that, and with a pang of guilt at having slept at all. What if something had happened while he was asleep? What if Aziraphale needed something? What if…

But when he opened his eyes to the morning light hitting his eyelids directly, he blinked away the intrusion and pushed his glasses back more firmly onto his face. He looked down at Aziraphale snoring quietly on his chest, still fully, unnecessarily, attached to Crowley even after recovering from last night’s events. They didn’t strictly _need_ to be this close anymore, but Crowley basked in every graze of skin, in every hot breath that danced lightly over his ribcage. 

God, he loved Aziraphale.

He reached down and passed a hand with reverence over Aziraphale’s head to pet it, and then stretched his fingers out and ran them ever so slowly through the silver-white curls atop his head. His hair felt like feathers, impossibly soft and giving under Crowley’s crude, dirty fingers.

He looked, and looked. He barely dared to touch, lest he disturb Aziraphale’s deep slumber and ruin it all. 

He knew, deep deep in his cursed bones, that after this he could never go back to pretending he didn’t care about Aziraphale, that he didn’t feel anything that couldn’t be ignored, that the attraction was just physical, or coincidental, or anything that wasn’t simply pure, unadulterated love. 

God, just the sight of his pale shoulders resting over Crowley’s body...They shifted minutely every time he sighed in his sleep. They were smooth and shining and warm.

His fingers were curled around Crowley’s neck carefully, reaching over in an attempt to keep him right were he wanted him, even in sleep.

The skin on the inside of his smooth, clean wrist rubbed against the downy, dark hair at Crowley’s chest. 

Aziraphale’s thigh rubbed tiny movements between Crowley’s legs and hips that were intoxicating.

God, he had light tan freckles that dusted his back and shoulders.

Crowley felt swell after swell after swell of affection and love and want and desire as his eyes swept up and down and back up what was visible of Aziraphale’s body. His heart physically clenched and ached, painfully. 

He hoped that Aziraphale would never feel this, with anyone; to feel that pain of loving someone you couldn’t have, of almost losing something so precious and dear. He knew Aziraphale had been worried about Crowley when he’d gotten hurt, but it was normal. It was expected. They were...friends, he guessed he could say. They had kissed, more than once. Aziraphale had asked to stay with him, once long ago. He’d cared for him in sickness. And he’d almost, almost wanted Crowley not too long ago. But Crowley couldn’t believe the acts were ones of love, or even desire. He was just confused. 

Maybe he’d been fooled by Crowley into thinking Crowley wasn’t that bad, or that pirates were nice, deep down. They were not. And Crowley was not good, or _nice_ , or anything even close to deserving. Crowley had been kind to Aziraphale because he...well, because he _loved_ him. And maybe that was confusing Aziraphale into thinking he wanted Crowley. But he didn’t. The moment he walked off this ship, he’d forget all about him, and he’d find someone else, anyone else who was better than a _pirate_ , to fill the hole. That’s what needed to happen. Before Crowley lost control and did something he couldn’t take back, or touched something that was never his to begin with. He didn’t deserve a kind thing like Aziraphale. He just didn’t.

Eventually, he figured it was time to get up. If Aziraphale awoke like this, they’d have to face this for what it was, and what they both knew it couldn’t be. So he took a deep breath, and he steeled himself for a long moment, and then carefully extracted himself from beneath Aziraphale’s grasp. He maneuvered one of the pillows into Crowley’s now-vacant spot and Aziraphale grumbled softly and nuzzled his nose into the pillow, relaxing his body once again into slumber.

Crowley took yet another moment then, to look at him curled under the sheets of Crowley’s bed. He belonged there. Crowley knew he belonged there, and that if he would just be willing to stay, if he really actually wanted to stay, that Crowley would make it worth his while every single night and every single morning. 

What he wouldn’t give for a life like that.

He dipped his head down to graze his lips over Aziraphale’s curls at the top of his head, and gave him a gentle kiss, a barest touch of lips against skin.

He bathed quickly, rinsing over the dry, salty smell that the rain and sea water had left over his skin.

He got dressed.

He braided his hair and holstered his sword to his side.

He cleaned his glasses, and set them against his face once more.

He grabbed Aziraphale’s little angel knife, and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his shirt vest, like he did every morning.

Finally, he ventured outside.

The ship was unusually quiet for the hour; there was hardly anyone on deck yet, although it may still have been quite early. Crowley wasn’t exactly sure how long he’d slept, or even at what time they’d gone to bed last night. Had it still been evening?

As his boots clopped across the wooden floors, Newt appeared from one of the lower levels, trousers sopping wet from the knees down.

“Newt?” Crowley ventured with a hint of confusion that were unmistakable.

“Ah, yes. Uh, good---good morning, Captain,” he stuttered out, crossing his hands behind his back.

“How’s...How’s Adam?” Crowley ventured. 

“Oh!” Newt exclaimed. “He’s okay! Perfectly fine, actually. Tip-top. Nothing a couple blankets and some warm tea couldn't fix, as with most things,” he said with a genuine smile on his face.

Crowley sighed a deep breath of relief at the news and just muttered, “Good, good, yeah.”

“Is...Aziraphale okay?” Newt asked quietly, unsure if he should broach the subject.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, he’s fine now. Probably should rest for a bit more though. The hypothermia really...really got to him. Yeah,” he stuttered his way sadly through it all, still not ready to address the raw, painful feelings that sat at the base of his throat. 

Newt just nodded, unsure what to say. He’d always seemed a little intimidated by Crowley it seemed, although he mostly seemed intimidated by everyone, really. Even by Anathema occasionally; although it had long ago transformed from intimidation to open adoration and admiration, as he very transparently ogled over her and even after being together for years seemed always in awe of her every move.

“...why are you wet?” Crowley spoke just to break the silence.

Newt’s little smile disappeared immediately.

“Y-yes, right. Well. It seems uh. Well,” he stammered along carefully, and Crowley grew impatient.

“ _What_ , Newt? Spit it out.” He was rewarded with a sad, sympathetic glance. “Oh, _fuck_ , what now?” He growled.

“Well, uh, the storm, you see. Well, overnight we got pushed into some sharp rocks that were previously uncharted and, well, uh, unexpected,” Newt pulled at the neck of his shirt as he spoke, and then moved on to fidgeting with his sleeves as he began to run out of things to do with his hands. “And we were all...bunkered down waiting out the storm so we couldn’t do much about it. But it kind of...well, it…”

Crowley cocked his eyebrow high and said nothing.

“There’s a hole in the ship,” he finished lamely and pulled a face like he was waiting for the world to crash around him.

“There’s a hole...in the ship.” Crowley repeated carefully.

Newt took a step back slowly.

“There’s a _hole_...in _my ship_?” Crowley was actually growling now, his face pulled into a deep sneer.

“It’s okay, though, it’s all figured out!” Newt attempted to amend quickly before Crowley’s metaphorical claws came out. “It’s a little...hole. We’re just gonna dock over on Muninn Isle, we’re practically on top of it. And we’ll fix it there,” he finished optimistically.

Crowley’s face, however, didn’t change. “We’re docking.”

“Yes, we...we’re docking.”

“How long.” Crowley schooled his face into one of apathy. No expression. 

Now that, that was dangerous.

“...Not sure. Not-not long, I...I think,” Newt pulled harder at his sleeves and took another step back, hoping Crowley was too angry to notice him retreating.

Crowley was silent for a long moment, seemingly calm and pensive. However, if one looked closely, you could see that every muscle in his body was precariously tensed, and his hands were fisted tight against his sides.

“Where’s Anathema,” he said quietly, monotone.

“Um, down-downstairs.”

Crowley took big, brisk steps and rushed over to a hatch hidden behind Newt and stepped down the ladder without another word. Newt released a big breath he’d been holding and rushed off quickly in the opposite direction, glad to be free of the rest of that conversation.

Crowley’s mind was reeling, hard, and he pushed past boxes and people and waded through the steadily rising water pooling currently at his ankles. He only stopped when he found Anathema, who was giving orders around, sure enough, a small hole near the bottom of the wall that was gushing with water. If it had been any bigger, this could have been a much bigger problem, so at least there was that, but. 

“Is it true,” he barked in Anathema’s general direction, and several of his crewmates jumped and turned around to face the sudden intrusion. He kept his eyes trained on the gushing hole.

“Yes. There’s nothing else that can be done,” she said with a terrifying finality.

“How long,” he asked again.

“Honestly, maybe just a couple of hours. A day, at the most,” she waited for him to say something else, and when he didn’t, “We’ll work fast.”

He stood there for a long moment, just watching the water pour in. Some people were moving boxes out of the way, or stacking them on top of each other to make more room. But most were just sitting around, waiting for something else to do. There wasn’t anything they _could_ do, at least until they docked.

He finally nodded hard, hard enough to knock his glasses down his face a bit, and turned on his heels to walk away. He climbed back up the ladder and across the deck, the whole time staring at his feet with no destination in mind. When he looked up, he was at the bow of the boat, and he looked down at the crushing waters beneath. 

To have seen the sky today, you would never have guessed at the storm that had just passed them. It was a lovely sunny day, and a few stringy white clouds floated easily overhead. The sun was hot on top of Crowley’s head, and he was grateful for the warmth of it. He always liked warmth. The waters beneath still looked distant, and terrifying, and crushing as always, but now they were a delightful navy color that shifted into bright white foam as the ship sliced through the thick waves. Crowley closed his eyes, and felt the wind whipping lightly at his face, pulling strands of red out of his loose French braid. 

This was gonna be bad.

The reality of it came crashing down on Crowley suddenly, here alone at the bow, being flung forward towards land, towards civilization.

Aziraphale would never speak to him again.

Whatever he thought he was growing here---every touch that felt like a new sprout in the dirt, every glance that felt like rainwater on a freshly-planted seed, every embrace that felt like sunlight on tender, new shoots---it was all uprooted after this.

He opened his eyes slowly, and felt a painful sting in his eyes. In the distance, he could see the beginnings of land.

Hell, this was gonna hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU ALL MAKE ME SO HAPPY GOOD LORD  
> thank you for the lovely comments, and kudos, and 1200 hits!!!!!!!! holy cow!!!!! i love you!!!!!!  
> anyway, i hope it's nice wherever you are, and i hope you are safe and healthy and warm. message me on tumblr if you get bored, or anxious, or just need someone to talk to. send me book recommendations, or fic recommendations, or songs or playlists or artists, etc.etc.etc. or if you just wanna yell at me for all the things i put the boys through, that's fine too lmao. see you in the comments or in my inbox!!! love y'all, truly. <3


	17. now and forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short little chapter that you all are gonna hate me for :-)  
> they have a conversation. it's not good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "and this is how it ends  
> with a whisper  
> with a groan  
> with an 'i don't wanna go'  
> sometimes  
> it is not courageous  
> or victorious  
> it is simply this.  
> we tried  
> we loved  
> and still we failed."

Crowley was there when Aziraphale had finally begun to stir from his sleep. 

He’d watched the ship’s rapid approach to land from the bow for several minutes, just thinking about what he might say to Aziraphale. All his thoughts, however, seemed to circle back to the same place; running through all of the things he’d never get to do with Aziraphale.

Not after this. 

He calculated their distance to be at about two hours from docking. They inched forward, little by little, closer and closer. Eventually, he couldn’t stand to watch. He felt sick.

He ambled back to his room, and pressed an ear to the wooden door before entering to see if there were any noises coming from inside. But there was nothing.

He entered the room and closed the door quietly behind him, and pulled out one of the dining chairs from their dinner table to face Aziraphale on the bed. He turned the chair around and swung one leg over it to straddle it, the back of the chair now pressed against his stomach. He rested his arms on the back of the chair and watched Aziraphale take deep breaths in, and soft breaths out. 

Might as well drink it in before it’s all over.

He just watched, for maybe ten minutes. At one point, he may have dozed off like that. He drifted and tried to think of nothing but the angel sleeping in his bed, leaving behind the sweet, woodsy smell he carried with him onto the sheets.

And eventually, Aziraphale stirred.

Crowley watched him push his face deeper against the pillow and groan lightly, covering his eyes from the sunlight streaming brightly into the room. He shifted a knee higher up, and settled once again.

“Good morning, angel,” Crowley said quietly into the empty room. Aziraphale jumped a bit and lifted his head high and whipped it around to locate the source of the noise.

“Oh, hello, Crowley,” he said with a dopey, half-asleep smile unashamedly wide on his face. He frowned a little though, a little pout, when he registered Crowley in front of him. “You’re already dressed.”

“Yes, uh. Well---”

“And you’re wet.”

Crowley looked down at the ankles of his trousers, barely starting to dry in the warmth of the room. “Yes.”

Aziraphale waited, and his mouth shifted from that adorable pout to something more serious. Crowley cleared his throat and looked down at the space between him and the bed, and Aziraphale said, “Is everything okay? Is it Adam?”

Crowley looked up at that. “Oh, hum, no. Adam’s fine, actually. You were worse off than he was, really. Glad you’re...looking better,” Crowley finished sadly.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows furrowed and he said with a hint of embarrassment in his voice, “Yes. Well. Thank you...for that. For...everything.”

Crowley remained silent and looked back down. He cleared his throat again of the big knot in his throat that refused to budge. 

“We need to talk, angel.”

Aziraphale sat up in bed, sensing the seriousness in Crowley’s voice. He grabbed the blankets and pulled them closer around his body, but from here Crowley could still see the clear pale skin of his shoulders. His collarbone. His goddamn freckles.

“We, uh. H-here’s the thing. I didn’t...I didn’t think it would come to this, and I...I mean I would have told you...before but it’s…”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said seriously. “What’s wrong?”

Crowley looked up, and drank it all in one last time.

He sighed. “When I was young, and I mean like, pretty young. You know. Just a kid, still. I...ran with a tough crowd. I didn’t really have anyone, but I had them, you know?” He looked up at Aziraphale and saw confusion written clearly across his face. But he sat there. And he listened.

“I didn’t know anything but that life, and I don’t know, maybe we did things that weren’t exactly...right, okay? Well, they asked me to...do something bad. And it wasn’t even _that_ bad, really, the lady could have done without a few pence and I hadn’t eaten in, like, three days, but I just...whatever, anyway. And I got caught. I thought she was gonna kill me, she was so _angry_ , I thought that was it, but the lady that got me, she looked me right in the eye, and I swear her eyes were like flames, red-hot and like...just, terrifying. And she looks right at me, and she says, and I’ll never forget it, she looks right at me and says, ‘You’ll regret this boy, now and forever.’ And she grabs my wrist and I just feel like...fire running through my blood, like boiling sulphur just bubbling underneath my skin, it hurt. God, it hurt,” Crowley’s voice trembled and shook with the effort of speaking through the knot in his throat that only seemed to close tighter around his throat with every second. He looked down at his hands and closed them in fists, and stretched them out again. “And I passed out, it hurt so bad. And when I woke up, I couldn’t find anyone. And everything hurt. Everything...burned. I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid. And I didn’t have anyone else. I hopped on a boat and I...I never looked back.”

Crowley took a shuddering breath. He opened his mouth to continue, and found that he no longer could. 

He couldn’t do this. He just couldn’t.

Aziraphale stared at him, hands clenched around the blankets at his thighs. He didn’t understand any of it. “Crowley,” he started after a moment. “Why are you telling me this?”

He waited patiently for Crowley to say something. Anything.

Finally, Crowley cleared his throat again, hard. “Right. Well I. I stowed away on this boat, and when they found me they let me stay on as long as I worked on it. So I did. And then we docked, and they kicked me off. And then,” he closed his mouth. He swallowed with a click. “Something...happened.”

He closed his fists tight.

“When we docked, like...the second we hit land. I was just. I had just been sat on my bed, you know. And then all of a sudden, I was...God, I can’t even say it.”

He looked up desperately at Aziraphale’s face for something, anything. A lifeline.

“I’m cursed, okay? She...did something to me and I can’t fix it,” and now he started rambling, the words pouring out of him uncontrollably. It felt like ice cold water was flooding into his lungs and he was taking heaving, panting breaths just to try and stay afloat. All of sudden he needed to explain it all away, to justify it, to apologize for it before Aziraphale could hate him for it. 

“That’s why I need that amulet. I thought I could fix it, somehow, and then if I can fix it then this never happens again and I can have a normal life, see. And I know, I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m so sorry for what I did, I didn’t even do anything _that_ bad, really, it was the people I ran with that had the bad reputation, and they made me do things I didn’t want to sometimes but I didn’t have anyone, I mean anyone, besides them, okay? And I, I’m so fucking sorry for what I did, and I deserve whatever comes my way but I just...I’m just so fucking _tired_ of this, and I’m sorry Aziraphale, I’m so sorry. I...I should have told you, I should have just told you way back when I first met you and we could’ve avoided all this and----”

“Crowley.”

He looked up at Aziraphale completely out of breath, and he sounded like he was going to cry.

“What...what’s the curse?” Aziraphale looked so lost and desperate, and he held his breath for the answer. Crowley, meanwhile, was panicking, panicking, panicking deep under his skin, blood vibrating and pooling thick in his veins. It ran ice cold, and yet it reminded him of that terrible burning feeling of hot sulphur gooping through his bloodstream. 

To think, one hour ago, he had it all. He held an angel in his arms, maybe one that wanted him back.

And now, he was losing everything.

He opened his mouth to say something, and found there wasn’t anything he could say that would fix this, that would make him stay.

He reached up to his face, and pulled his glasses ever so slowly off his face.

When he looked up, for a second it was lovely. He got to look at Aziraphale for one golden, sacred, lovely second without the filter of the shades between them. He looked at the blue of his eyes, bright even from this distance, a whole range of shades visible that weren’t present with the glasses on. He looked lighter, brighter, impossibly more beautiful. Glowing. Radiant. A true angel, draped over his linen bed sheets.

Which made it all the more painful when he watched every single muscle in Aziraphale’s face recoil in shock at the sickly shade of yellow of Crowley’s eyes staring back. 

“S-snake eyes,” Aziraphale stuttered out, his whole body reacting to push him as far from Crowley as possible. 

“As soon as we dock, I won’t...look like this, like me anymore. I won’t be...human anymore. I can’t go on land, see? A cruel trick to keep me from ever stopping, from ever creating something, having something. I did one bad thing, and now I bear this...curse forever,” Crowley tried to explain. After everything, he still couldn’t really say it, dancing around it carefully. The words wouldn’t form in his mouth, try as he might. 

Aziraphale stared at Crowley for a long moment, eyes flitting back and forth between Crowley’s, and then stood up roughly from the bed. He looked away briefly to grab his shirt from wherever Crowley had thrown it on the floor the previous night, and as he pulled it on, he began walking out of the room without even looking back, without even stopping to grab his shoes.

“Wait, Aziraphale,” Crowley stood quickly and pushed the glasses back roughly onto his face. He slammed them up with excess force, causing a sting in the corner of his eyes where he pushed too hard. Or, well, he would blame the sting in his eyes and the tears that threatened to spring from them on the glasses. 

“Wait, please, _please_ ,” and he grabbed at Aziraphale’s shoulder before he could grab the door handle. “Look, I...I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. For all of it. For making you think that I...that I was _good_ or nice or whatever. But I,” and he swallowed thick. This, he could say. For Aziraphale, he could say it. Last chance. “I love you. I love you so goddamn much. And I'm so _sorry_ for that. You deserve so much better, you deserve the goddamn world and I can’t give you that, I know that. I loved you when we kissed, and when we danced, and when I thought you were gonna die on me. I loved you at the very beginning, and I’ll love you till the very end. Whatever I did in the past, whatever bad thing I’ve ever done to deserve all this, it was worth every goddamn second because it led me to you.” His voice shook, hard. “You don’t have to say you love me. Of course not, I know you wouldn’t. I know you don’t. And I don’t...I don’t expect anything from you, okay? I just...I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll stay away if you like, I’ll still take you back to London. I’ll do anything. We can go back to hating each other, a pirate and a Royal, whatever, just...just don’t leave me like this. Don’t. Please. _Please_.”

He said all this is one long breath that rushed out of his body. And he spoke it all directly to Aziraphale’s back. 

And when he was done, Aziraphale waited a breath, reached a hand up to twist at the doorknob, and left without ever turning back.

Crowley felt one hot tear roll out from his serpentine eye and it stuck to the inside edge of his glasses and pooled there, never escaping further onto his cheek.

That’s right. Snakes can’t cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> already started working on the next chapter!!! i was considering sticking this one and the next one together but i was like....nah let's all suffer together for a day or two and then i'll get the next bit out. i promise i'll have it out sooner than a week though so don't worry about suffering for too long. thanks for all the comments and kudos and everything you make me HAPPY so happy thank you thank you. after nearly 50k words you're STILL HERE and that means SO MUCH TO ME. THANKS.  
> please unleash your angry yelling and suffering in the comments, it feeds my evil and cruel demonic overlord muses that live off of the eternal angst :)


	18. i'll think of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a very one-sided conversation, but an important one nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "so i will not ask you where you came from;  
> i will not ask, and neither should you.  
> honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips,  
> we should just kiss like real people do."  
> //  
> surprise!!! two chapters in 24 hours?? you betcha. quarantine is really doing wonders for my creative juices. also, the next one may not come out as quick, just fyi, i'll be busy with other stuff this weekend, apologies. enjoy! :)

Aziraphale’s mind was racing, racing, racing in circles. 

He had to get out of here. He had to leave, right now. Go somewhere. Anywhere. 

It was definitely not a small ship by any means, but right now it felt suffocating. There was nowhere to go that wasn’t a constant reminder of _Crowley, Crowley, Crowley._

 _I love you_.

God, this would kill him, it would.

He rushed out of Crowley’s room like a piston, and his feet shuffled quickly across the ship, anywhere, anywhere, as his eyes stayed permanently fixed on the floor in front of him. He held his hands in front of him and nervously twisted the gold band around his finger, over and over. 

“Aziraphale!” He heard someone say directly in front of his face and he looked up briskly, unaware of where he even was. “Looking better! I’m glad you’re alright,” said Adam. “I’m okay, too. I heard you weren’t so good, but you look okay now. Thanks for gettin’ me out of the water, by the way. Awful brave o’ you, I’d say.” He spoke with a wide, trusting grin on his face, quite a contrast to how Aziraphale had first met him, all shrugs and eye rolls. 

“B-brave?” He stuttered out, mind still at a hundred miles a minute and entirely elsewhere. _Brave_. Running out on Crowley was not _brave_. Listening to him divulge his life story and denying it, listening to that...those confessions of love. And leaving him there, after he _begged_ you not to. Brave. That was not a word Aziraphale would use for himself now, or ever, in fact. It had never been a word that had been used to describe Aziraphale, by anyone, in his entire life. And it felt wrong, so wrong, especially now. It felt like the universe had stabbed him right in his chest, and now it was twisting the knife in further and tossing a bit of salt in the wound, now, just for kicks. _Brave_.

“Yeah, I mean you don’t seem the type to jump into ice waters for just anyone, n-no offense. An’ a pirate, on top of that. So yeah. Brave. Thanks.” He paused to see if Aziraphale would say anything else, but weirdly his expression was gutted, raw. “Um, so are you gonna be watching the Captain? When we dock?”

Aziraphale looked confused.

“For when he goes…? You know?” And Adam did a little slither-y movement with his arms and body that coincided with a little hiss. “Well, anyway, just a tip, I had to watch him last time and he gets realll grumpy if you try to pick him up. Yeah. And he will bite you. Just sayin’.” He pulled up a sleeve on his shirt to display an old, faded set of pricks on his forearm that looked a whole lot like fang bites. “Oh! And Madame Tracy has been doin’ a little charting on the side, Anathema and Cap have been busy, you know, and she’s not the _best_ at navigating, strictly speaking, but she says we can be nearin’ London in maybe a week or so? After Muninn, anyway.”

He glanced at Aziraphale who still said nothing, and who seemed to grow more uncomfortable by the second, twisting his golden ring round and round at a dangerous pace. 

“O-okay, well, I’ll see you later. Thanks again...prisoner,” and he smiled a cocky grin at Aziraphale as he sauntered away.

Aziraphale stared at the empty space in front of him where Adam had once been for a long while. He’d stopped twisting his ring.

He processed carefully

An amulet.

A curse.

A...snake?

 _That’s what I get for falling in love with a_ pirate _. Cursed. Just my damned luck._

_He loves you._

_He loves you._

He didn’t, though, he surely didn’t. He was...he just said that. Sure, yeah, he just said that because he didn’t want Aziraphale to leave. Right?

_And you left him anyway._

_Idiot._

His head hurt. His heart was battling a fierce war inside his chest, bouncing around his ribcage like a trapped moth fluttering about, looking for a light source, a flame, a flicker, anything. He was angry, he was so angry, that he’d trusted a _pirate_ , even for a second. He knew they were trouble, he knew it was in their _nature_ to lie, to steal, to be cruel and harsh. 

But he was also hopeful, or he had been once, watching Crowley care for him, being held tenderly in his arms, being cradled after a drunk night of pointing out constellations together, of Crowley nearly giving his _life_ for someone he’d practically just met, to protect a _Royal_. 

He was confused. He wanted to hate him. He really, really wanted to hate him. And he couldn’t.

He loved him.

_And he loves you._

Fuck.

He ran a hand nervously through his hair, and walked to the bow of the ship. He had not known this at the time, but he stood precisely where Crowley had stood that very morning, and he watched the rapid approach of land. It was so close, Aziraphale could make out other ships already tied at the docks, smaller than the one he was currently on. Another ten minutes, fifteen maybe, and they’d be there. The island was tiny, he could tell that much. Mostly unclaimed wilderness and small huts here and there. A fish market near the docks and people fishing quietly on the sand. 

He couldn’t stay here, on this island, even if he wanted to. There was nowhere to go from here. But if what Adam said was true, then London wasn’t too far off, and he could be home in a week or two, at the most, if he stayed on the ship. _Home_. What the hell did that even mean anymore? It wasn’t home anymore, it wasn’t. Not without Crowley there to keep him safe, and warm. There to dance with him and feed him and laugh with him. Home was ruined, now. 

He sat there at the bow, and he watched the island approach.

In a deep, deep part of Aziraphale’s soul, so deep it could easily be denied if one tried hard enough, he sat there and he hoped that Crowley would come after him. Would demand an answer. Would beg him to say _something_. He needed Crowley to be brave for them both. He needed Crowley to be braver than Aziraphale could ever be, he needed him to give him one more chance, one he definitely did _not_ deserve, to say what he meant to say. What he was so scared to say. 

But he didn’t come.

He never came. 

Once, he thought he saw out of the corner of his eye a flash of red hair brushing past Anathema’s figure in the distance, but he couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t bring himself to look. And it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

/////

Aziraphale had been sulking for a couple stressful, agonizing minutes, and he ran his fingers through white-hot, damp hair. A thin sheen of sweat had begun to gather across his forehead against the warm sun above him, he’d noticed, when Anathema hollered loud on deck and everyone’s eyes turned to hers.

“Listen up, everybody. We’re docking at Muninn Island, maybe half a day, a day at the most. First priority is gathering materials and fixing that hole in the ship.”

_A hole...in the ship?_

“We fix it, we get food, water, essentials, and we move out. We’re on a schedule. Any problems, you come to me. Questions?” She spoke with such a fierce, determined air always. No one dared speak up. “Good. Get ready to dock this ship.” At those words the entire crew that had previously been shuffling about the deck aimlessly began to bustle across the ship with purpose. Weapons were sheathed, anchors were hauled out, ropes were untangled and stretched out. 

Aziraphale looked around uselessly as the crew motioned to do just what Anathema had ordered them to. Far in the back of Aziraphale’s head, he had a fleeting thought that although she had the right authoritative aura to her to play Captain for a time, Crowley made things sound all the more exciting, more adventurous when he spoke. He had a certain flair for dramatics that gave him a little extra charm, on top of it all. 

He shook his head to clear the thought from his head. He looked around, and felt awkward and out of place among the muscled, sweaty crew as they pulled the boat carefully into the shore line and the ship crawled to a stop. He hadn’t felt so out of place here since he’d first set foot on the ship. He didn’t like that; remembering what it was like before. Before Crowley.

_Crowley._

He looked down at his ring again, and twisted it once, dejectedly. He knew he couldn’t be a coward forever. He had to go back to him, if only to explain why they could never be together, why this couldn’t work the way he desperately wanted it to work. He felt at his pockets in his trousers, and felt a stab of pain when he couldn’t feel the compass he always carried there. Crowley’s compass. 

He looked around desperately, looking for the approximate spot he’d been in when he’d jumped, what seemed like years ago. For a second, he saw nothing but dirty wooden floors and shuffling feet, but then he saw it; a glimmer of a thing, reflecting against the sunlight perfectly, and resting wedged between a big wooden box and the wall of the ship.

He rushed up through the many people on board and when he reached it, he bent down and carefully retrieved it from its resting place. It was a little scuffed around the edges, but there it was. He was glad to have it back, and was glad he’d had the foresight that night to fish it out of his pockets before he jumped. It was the only thing he’d thought to do before he…

He didn’t think he would live after that. He didn’t even know if he was gonna survive the fall, and then the subsequent crash into ice waters. He was definitely not a good swimmer by any means, and his extra weight wasn’t an advantage when pulling someone up to keep them from drowning. He had a pretty strong feeling that he wouldn’t likely make it. But he had to try, because how could he not? 

And just before he made that decision, in the one split second it took him to decide, he also decided he’d leave something for Crowley to find, after. Since he wouldn’t get a chance to say goodbye. If he tried, he wouldn’t let Aziraphale jump, he knew. He pulled the small compass out of his pockets, where he’d kept it since it had been gifted to him, and he pressed a hot kiss to its surface, and he set it down to be found later. Maybe after everything, Crowley would like some reminder of Aziraphale, and what they’d briefly had. 

At the very least, he would have his own compass back.

And here he was, retrieving it himself, thanks to Crowley’s quick thinking. After everything, after _everything_ , Crowley still looked after him and cared for him. Three times now, he’d saved Aziraphale’s life when he’d had absolutely no reason to. Even when it literally put his own life in danger, he did that for Aziraphale.

He rubbed the compass reverently, and placed it back in his pockets, where it belonged.

_Don’t be a coward._

_Be brave, go on._

He took a deep, sobering breath. And made up his mind.

He walked towards Crowley’s room at a harsh, demanding pace. It felt like a death march.

And suddenly, he found himself outside Crowley’s room.

_Be brave._

He screwed his eyes shut, knocked, and twisted the doorknob.

He waited a long, quiet beat before prying his eyes open. But there was no one there. He glanced around the room curiously, and saw no one. He blinked. He turned around and looked behind him at the corridor. Nothing. 

He was sure he had seen him return to the rooms after briefly seeing him on deck...maybe he’s in another room? He turned and walked down the corridor slowly, craning his head into each room and doing a quick check for Crowley. Nothing. He headed towards his own room, and his stomach dropped. _What if he’s been waiting in here for me, and he’s been here God knows how long trying to get another chance to talk to me, and I’ve been out there sulking like a child?_ He pushed his door open slowly, expecting to see him on the bed, or standing around, or at his desk. _His desk, his bed, his room. Like they’d ever been his to begin with._

But nothing.

He strolled back to Crowley’s room. He had to be here. He definitely wasn’t on deck, Aziraphale would have seen him, right?

“Crowley?” He called out quietly into the large, empty room. “Are...are you here?”

Nothing.

Aziraphale shut the door behind him with a click and walked past the long wooden table they’d had so many dinners at, so many drinks at, so many laughs at. He pushed one of the chairs in, and stacked some dirty plates on top of each other, just to have something to do with his hands. He looked towards the bed and started towards it. Maybe he’d just wait for Crowley to come back. That was fine. That would give him more time to decide what to say when he finally did see him. 

He was just approaching the bed when he thought he saw something move under the bed.

Something moved. 

Aziraphale’s eyes widened comically, and he took two quick steps back. He could hear something shifting, something sliding under the bed, and some of the shirts that Crowley had haphazardly tossed onto the floor seemed to shift slowly and were pulled into the dark crevice underneath the bed. Aziraphale stared at where he heard movement, but he couldn’t actually see anything. 

He stared a long moment before he whispered, voice too shaky to be anywhere _near_ casual, “Crowley?”

He heard a little hiss from beneath the bed and slowly, slowly, slowly a snake’s head pushed out from underneath the bed. It was large and it glimmered in the sunlight, scales a dark, midnight black that glistened, they were so smooth, and as it raised its head a bit Aziraphale could see bright red scales covering the entire underbelly of the thing.

He staggered back dangerously, and lost his balance as he tripped over a pile of clothes Crowley had left there previously. He grappled at one of the dining chairs behind him and gripped tight to it until his knuckles turned white. “Good Lord….”

It had bright yellow eyes.

Crowley.

It had to be.

“H-hello. Crowley...Oh, my lord. You weren’t...you weren’t lying.” He stuttered, eyes never leaving the staggering golden eyes that seemed to pierce his very soul. The serpent seemed to have no reaction, besides to flick its tongue out experimentally. It slowly edged out from beneath the bed and ventured out further into the room. It seemed to be slithering around the bedpost, circling it a bit and then stretching its neck ( _do snakes have necks?_ ) up one of the sides of the wooden frame. 

“Can...can you hear me?” Aziraphale ventured carefully, slowly releasing his death grip on the chair and straightening out. The initial shock was over, but this was _not_ something Aziraphale was ever going to get used to. Ever.

The snake was much larger than Aziraphale had first detected, thick and heavy, at least three or four feet long maybe. It was terrifying. It continued to circle the bed carefully, seemingly exploring the space before it. 

“If, um...if you can understand me or hear me or...or anything, could you look at me, please? Or maybe, blink if you can understand? Anything?” Aziraphale had no idea how this worked, and desperately hoped he could talk to the snake like he was speaking to Crowley. Maybe they could communicate, somehow. 

Unfortunately, the snake made no movement even to acknowledge Aziraphale's presence in the room. It arched its head higher up and reached for the top of the mattress while coiling its body tightly around one of the posts.

“Um, here, dear, let me help you,” Aziraphale muttered quietly, momentarily forgetting that the snake was a dangerous-looking animal he’d found in Crowley’s room, and not a toddler that needed a hand up climbing the stairs. As he approached, without thinking, he let a fingertip graze the underbelly of the snake’s body and put pressure on it to lift it higher onto the bed. The snake immediately reared its head back and hissed, loud, right in Aziraphale’s face. He could see big, yellow-white fangs poised to attack four inches from his face and he recoiled so quickly, he fell hard on his arse and crawled backward as quickly as he could to get some distance between them. 

The snake continued to hiss at him for a second or two, then seemed to tuck away its fangs and continue its trek up the bed, once again barely missing the edge and fumbling back and forth for a better grip. 

“You’re not Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, certain that his Crowley ( _his_ Crowley) would never scare him like that. “I mean, you’re Crowley but...it’s not you. You don’t know me, do you? You don’t understand a word I’m saying.” He looked desperately at the snake in front of him and his heart ached. 

“Okay. That’s fine, okay. We can...we can talk later. I...I have quite a bit to say to you.” Aziraphale watched the serpent finally grasp an edge and push itself precariously onto the bed, its body coiling and twisting around the post and up to the mattress. It slithered underneath the linen sheets, its head temporarily disappearing, followed by the rest of its long, thick body, before reappearing again out of the pile of sheets. It seemed to find a good spot, and rested its head on the coil of its own body. Its tongue flicked out.

“You...you have his eyes. That’s...that’s nice. It’s grounding, almost. I guess,” Aziraphale spoke quietly to it from his spot practically lying down on the floor. As he spoke, he gently, ever so slowly, lifted himself into a sitting position by the bed. He rested his hands behind him, and leaned on them. “Adam did tell me not to try to pick you up, that’s my fault, of course. I apologize,” he directed his words at the serpent, feeling comforted by its presence and also knowing, disappointingly, that it had no idea what he was saying. 

“Noted,” he cleared his throat. “So...Crowley turns into a snake, huh? I’ll tell you, I definitely...definitely did not see that one coming.” He waited. The snake stared. “You really have no idea what I’m saying, do you? You have Crowley’s eyes but you’re not...really him. You’ve...gone.” The snake flicked its tongue disinterestedly in Aziraphale’s direction. “Well. Um. Well, Adam, he-he told me I should uh...watch you. We’re docked now, at Muninn Island. They’re fixing a hole in the ship. There’s a hole in the ship! Can you believe Crowley didn’t think to tell me that? I mean, I guess he had other things on his mind, but…” He pulled his arms up so his elbows were resting languidly over his bent knees on the floor, sitting up and slightly crouched in on himself. He looked at his hands in front of him. “I...was cruel to him. You know. He...he told me he loved me. Can you believe that? He told me he loved me. And I...and I ran. Coward that I am,” he twisted the band round his finger again. He slipped it off an inch, and saw that the skin underneath was a much lighter shade than the skin around it. He slipped it back on. “I’ve only ever been a soldier, did you know that? I was really young when I lost my parents. I didn’t really have anything to do, and I was left with nothing, really. I didn’t have a home anymore. But I was recruited by the Royals, and they took me in. They gave me a house where I could keep my books and my maps and I could make tea in the mornings and write. They fed me. They gave me...purpose, I suppose. And the work was fine. I’d spend most days aboard ships along the coastline, and be home for a night or two a week. Sometimes they’d send me out on longer expeditions, charting new courses and filling out new maps. It was fine. I heard about pirates. Nasty breed...cruel and vicious. Rip your throat out for a pound. That sort. I did my duty protecting the waters from the pirate gangs, and I thought I was doing the right thing, I did. And then I met you,” he looked back up at the serpent, which had stopped moving on the bed. It seemed to be resting, and Aziraphale would think it had dozed off if its eyes had been closed, but it seemed to stare straight ahead. Right through Aziraphale. 

“Er, Crowley. Not...you, exactly, I guess. It was a longer expedition when you got me and I had never been on a pirate ship before. And I was so scared, but I was trying to be tough, you know. Not lose my nerve. I was mostly upset, I’d never see my books again. I spent so long trying to make a home for myself, somewhere I could just be...me, in peace, and now I’d never get to see it again. I thought you were gonna kill me. And then I looked up at you and you were like...glowing. The sun was high up in the sky and it was pouring rays straight through your hair, it looked...heavenly. It looked like a halo on you. I never told you that. If I had died then, my last thoughts would have been how beautiful you were, how angelic you looked,” he paused and played with his fingers. He laughed under his breath. “Angel. You call me that. But I...I’m no angel, love. You are. It was always you. Every time you held me, every time you looked at me, every time you so much as breathed in my direction, it felt like...divine ecstasy. That’s, well, I’m sure you’d laugh at me for that, if...if you were here. But it’s true.” 

A shiver ran rough through his body and his whole body shook. His eyebrows creased, and he looked up at the serpent. “Do you remember when you got hurt? I mean, _you_ don’t, obviously, Crowley, I mean. I held his body when he went under. He was in my arms. That’s when I...that’s when I realized I loved him. After everything, that’s what did it. Before that, it was an elaborate dance we had, where I wanted you but I thought there was no way you could ever want me. I thought you were just like that, flirty, charming. And you are, dear, of course. That’s one of the reasons I love you, you’re so fun and exciting,” he stopped. 

“I love you. Gosh, I guess I hadn’t said that out loud till now. It’s true, though. And I couldn’t, see? Because you’re beautiful and charming, you’re clever, so clever. You always look so good, dear. And you’re...adventurous. Wild. Free. And I’m…” he took a deep shuddering breath that trembled as he released it. He was getting too carried away. “I’m soft. I’m...slow, and bookish. I’m...not as...well, no one has ever used the words ‘beautiful’ or ‘handsome’ or even ‘nice’ in my general direction before,” he chuckled darkly. “I’m sure you’ve met so many in your time exploring, so many beautiful people. Much nicer than myself. Much...just, better, I suppose. It was stupid to think you could ever want me. And then _you_ asked _me_. I was...I was sure I’d been dreaming. You never mentioned it again. I assumed you...changed your mind,” Aziraphale rubbed at his cheek with his fingertips. At this point, he was just rambling like a lovesick idiot, and he knew it. Not like he had anyone else to talk to, though.

“There’s a whole book I could fill with things you don’t know, you know that? I haven’t slept a proper night since you got hurt. You got hurt because of _me._ I’ll never forget...what you felt like under me. Bleeding out. Limp. Cold. I wake up every night and I can’t breathe because I think I killed you. I used to sneak into your room at night just to make sure I didn’t kill you. Don’t tell Crowley that,” he smiled darkly at the serpent. It had definitely dozed off, he was sure. It hadn’t moved in several minutes. It just sat there.

“That night when we...when we were here. I wanted you so bad. I wanted you before you could change your mind. Before you realized what a mistake it was. And the answer is yes, by the way. If we had one night. Yes. You’d hate me for it after, I think, you’d regret it. But I’d’ve said yes. When you said you loved me...it was too much for me, love. I’m a coward. But I’m also stubborn, and I love you, too. I love you so much that I could never, never let you make that mistake of loving me. You could do so much better, trust me, love. I’ll get off this ship and you’ll forget about me, and you’ll find someone better. And that’s alright. Really. I love you, I want you to be happy. I want the best for you. I’ll never forget you, though, after. The rest of my life I’ll think of you, of your warm lips, of your arms around mine. Of sleeping on your chest, God, you were so beautiful that night. Lord, was that just last night? God, I love you. I love you, I love you, and it _hurts_. It hurts I love you so much,” he sighed, fingers trembling hard. “I’ve got to get off this... _damn_ boat already.” 

He’d been talking to himself, mostly. His mind had gone elsewhere for a long moment, and when he came back to his body he was shaking like a leaf and hot tears were rolling silently down his face. He swiped at them roughly with the back of his hand roughly at the discovery. 

“Oh, that won’t do at all. God, I miss you already, Crowley,” he talked at the serpent now, and watched it flick its tongue out. 

“Oh, you’re awake! Good morning, dear,” he said softly, and pushed himself onto his hands in front of him to a crawling stance, and moved, very slowly, to the edge of the bed. “Do you think I could…?” He reached a hand out carefully, and stuck one finger out to hover over the serpent’s head. “May I?”

No response, obviously. But he thought it polite to ask, anyway. He gently lowered his finger onto the snake’s head and ran it softly down its snout. It flicked out its tongue several times. Aziraphale thought maybe the snake looked...pleased? He didn’t know, he’d never actually seen many serpents before. For all he knew, the snake might be poised to kill him right about now. 

It moved its head suddenly forward, and Aziraphale’s first instinct was to yank his hand back in fear. However, the snake continued its movements forward, and Aziraphale, bravely, stuck his hand back out towards its snout. He booped its snout carefully with a fingertip, and it flicked its tongue curiously. 

“Oh, Crowley would _kill_ me if he knew I was doing this, wouldn’t he?” 

As he spoke, the snake slithered onto his forearm and began a precarious ascent onto his shoulders. “Oh, dear,” Aziraphale muttered under his breath. “Please don’t hurt me,” he whispered as the snake slid silky smooth scales across his shoulders and onto his other arm, coiling around his arms for support. 

Aziraphale slowly, so slowly, stood from his crouching position and sat gingerly on the bed, before leaning back onto the bed to recline on it ever so gently. 

“Ah, that’s better, isn’t it, dear?” Aziraphale’s muscles were still tensed, ready to jump at any moment, but he laid back and tried to relax against Crowley’s bed sheets. The snake had uncurled from his shoulders and now crawled over his rounded, giving body. He turned his head to the side without thinking and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes reverently. “It still smells like him,” he whispered into the empty air of the room. He took another deep breath, and opened his eyes to glance down at the serpent. It had curled itself into a sort of mound, coiled on itself over Aziraphale’s sternum, between his chest and his belly. It was very large, so technically it actually rested atop Aziraphale’s entire torso, but the sides of it drooped over Aziraphale’s belly where it no longer fit, and its head rested just on his chest.

“You picked a good spot to nap, dear. We can wait here together for Crowley to come back. I won’t hurt you, I promise,” he cooed as he ran a gentle hand over the glimmering scales atop Crowley's long body. “And maybe in the meantime, I can think of what I’m _actually_ going to say to him when he returns. None of that, I think. Maybe I’ll just tell him we’re not right for each other, and save him the heartache. He doesn’t need to know anything else. One week and I’ll be out of his hair and he’ll be free forever. Yeah. We’ll try that, won’t we?” He had begun to speak to the serpent a bit like he’d speak to a small child. It felt weird. “Go on and rest, dear. I’ve got you.” He closed his eyes, and he continued to pet the snake on his chest, reveling in the smoothness of it, and he let the soft sway of the waves rock him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> snakey crowley!!!!! i did not know snake crowley was a thing for me, until i wrote this fic and i was like well. i guess that's a thing now. 
> 
> i hoard every comment kudo and hit like an angry 1600s arthurian dragon hoards mounds of gold. furiously and obsessively. thank you sm for supporting this work y'all, it's absolutely unreal every single time. thank you thank you thank you. loving the theories and the intense suffering in the comments!!!!! see you there!!!!! 
> 
> (also thank you for pointing out inconsistencies and things for me, i have no beta because i am a reckless disaster that did nOT plan on writing a 50k+ story and who has previously never written anything, ever. you improve my work, and it's flattering that y'all are actually reading my story. people! reading my story! still boggles my mind. anyway if you find anything please lmk, i appreciate it. love y'all like crazy. okay bye now.)


	19. let's be selfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things get heated. :o and they finally have a converSATION it only took NINETEEN fucking chapters, jc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "i think we deserve a soft epilogue,  
> my love  
> we are good people  
> and we've suffered enough."

Crowley could get used to waking up like this.

He blinked his eyes open, lids uncovered in the dim sunlight. A quick look out the window placed the boat in the middle of the ocean already, any sight of land long behind them. Outside, the sun was well on its way to setting gorgeously, and a golden orange glow danced across the room and lit up its every surface. Including Aziraphale’s face beneath him. Crowley raised his head from Aziraphale’s chest and realized that they were in the exact position as they had been the previous night, but now were mirror images of each other. Where last night Crowley had woken up to a lapful of angel, Aziraphale’s cheek resting on Crowley’s sternum, now, Crowley was wrapped around the angel, his own cheek still flushed hot from being so close to his angel’s body. 

_He loves me._

_He loves me back._

He let his mouth curve uncharacteristically into a thin, tender smile. His heart swelled with adoration, and he could feel the ache of it all over his body. His eyes softened and traced the face before him, slack with sleep, mouth pushed into a slight pout in his slumber. He did that, Crowley had noticed. When he was truly resting, in his deepest sleep, his lips pushed out, just a shade. It was adorable. 

It was the sort of the thing he was grateful even to have noticed. He’d never been this close to someone, to anyone, to notice something like that. To know what they were like when they were tired, or drunk, or angry, or sleeping well, or excited about something, or in love. And now, Crowley knew all of these things. 

He knew that Aziraphale got grumpy when he was tired, which was surprisingly not very often. Aziraphale slept much less than Crowley did, it seemed, content to sleep sporadically and in short bursts. But sometimes they’d stay up too late talking after dinner or after drinks and suddenly his eyelids would start to droop a bit and he’d get uncharacteristically quiet, and when Crowley teased him about it he’d furrow his brow and say, ‘Well, it’s your fault, it’s so late, we have things to do tomorrow, you know’ and things like that. He didn’t like admitting that he was tired or sleepy. 

He knew that when Aziraphale was drunk he slurred his words without noticing, and forgot how to use the big, fancy words he liked so much. And he’d point a lot in his stupor. Couple drinks in and he’d talk about anything at length, and with passion. Turns out he loves classical music, but isn’t a huge fan of musicals. He likes theatre, and he likes the funny ones. He likes the stars. He likes crepes. He likes all good food, actually, He likes wine, good wine. He likes routine and order, and at the same time thoroughly enjoys being as much of a rebellious, petty bastard as he’s able to get away with. He liked books, and maps, and knowledge, and felt like a fish surrounded by water when he was in the middle of a library; comforted by its surrounding and heavy presence, the weight of the words floating around him, the expanding wisdom a soft cushion underneath his head, the years of ages past all pressed into pages like dried flowers preserved in time, the stories they held like a tartan blanket round his shoulders. Oh, and tartan. He liked that, too.

When he was angry, he stuttered. His brain couldn’t get words out fast enough for his mouth to operate in tandem. And a little flush rose to his cheeks, and he would move his hands around a lot, like he couldn’t contain the feeling in his body. And deep, deep in his eyes, there was a fearsome fury there, like it lay sleeping always under many layers of skin, waiting to rise. It never did, though. Aziraphale was too practiced, too kind to let it slither out. But it sat there anyway, and Crowley wondered what would make it come out, and how actually terrifying Aziraphale might be when it did. Times like that made him wonder what Aziraphale would be like when he was playing soldier, when he was a warrior, a fighter. The thought was heady in Crowley’s mind.

When he was sleeping well, it was this. It was deep breaths and soft sighs. It was hands curled round anything within grasp, currently softly tangled at the ends of Crowley’s red curls. It was long lashes that dusted his freckled cheeks. And it was pouty lips, just like this. Just like this.

When Aziraphale was excited, God, the whole world could feel it. He bounced on his feet a bit, and his face lit up like the fourth of July. There was a sparkle in his eye, and it gleamed in the sunlight like rays glittering golden on crisp, blue waves. He waved his arms around to get his point across and he wiggled in place if it was particularly exciting in that moment. He had this wide, toothy grin that made the whole world feel okay for exactly as long as it took for him to dial it back with embarrassment at his obvious glee. It was the most beautiful thing Crowley had seen. 

And now he knew what it looked like when Aziraphale was in love. Turns out it was licking his lips when he thought Crowley wasn’t looking, and just the barest of touches when their hands grazed ‘accidentally’. It was an ankle knocking with Crowley’s under the table when they were having dinner. It was dreaming about Crowley, and worrying about him. It was slow dances, and stitches that probably hurt Aziraphale more than it hurt Crowley. It was worship, and selfishness, and selflessness, all at the same time. It was acceptance, after everything. After everything. It was desire, hot and surging. It was undeserved kindness. It was safety. It was trust. It was glasses of wine and loud laughs and panicked sobs, and trembling bodies, and shaking hands. And it was hot tears running down a frustrated, freckled, pale face, wanting and not being able to have. Thinking he wasn’t good enough, thinking Crowley didn’t understand at all, thinking and hoping and giving up. That’s what Aziraphale looked like when he was in love.

Two people who loved each other very dearly, literally draped in each other’s arms, and still wanting and pining and needing for the other. How did they ever get to this?

Crowley was thinking about it all. Everything he heard. Everything it was obvious he shouldn’t have heard, that he wasn’t meant to have understood.

When he realized he was naked, literally on top of Aziraphale. (Snakes don’t tend to wear clothes, after all.)

Ah, fuck.

Crowley stood up harshly, and regretted it when Aziraphale shifted in his sleep, grappling at the sudden loss of warmth. Crowley panicked, and hurriedly pushed the fluffiest of pillows within his grasp and stuffed it into Aziraphale’s outstretched arm. He sniffed quietly, and turned on his side to curl around it gently. He leaned his head down, and pressed his nose into the soft, white pillowcase. Crowley would literally, actually die to be that pillow right now, but he knew everything was careful now, fragile. Everything felt like delicate plates of china balanced precariously atop a rocking ship in a thunderstorm; one wrong move, and he’d break everything. And right now, it was too beautiful to mess with.

Maybe...maybe he’d wait for Aziraphale to wake. And then, he’d tell him. 

Yeah, he’d tell him the truth.

This whole thing, all the heartache and longing, was based on their lack of communication, on their godforsaken incorrect beliefs that they each knew what was best for the other, and that their love was entirely one-sided. And Aziraphale had asked him to be brave, had said he was scared. Confused. Wanting. 

So Crowley would be brave again. 

And now he knew what the answer would be. 

Well, not exactly, he thought; Aziraphale could still reject him, could still decide this wasn’t right or wasn’t worth it, he could change his mind. 

But Crowley had heard those words, straight from Aziraphale’s plush, pink lips.

_I love you._

And that was enough. No matter what happened after today, no matter if Azirapahle hated him, and left him forever, and found another life without him, he could carry that with him and know that for a moment, even for just a half of a damned moment, it was true. And that was enough. That would carry him to his last day, it would.

_I have to tell him. Tonight._

He smiled one last time at Aziraphale laying in his bed, looking so safe, and warm, and at home, and he walked away. For the last time, he hoped.

//// 

“More wine?”

“Oh, yes, please,” Aziraphale muttered thankfully, and held his drained wine glass out before him in the other’s direction.

Crowley reached out his arm across the table, bottle in hand, and agonizingly slowly poured the remnants of a very good wine into Aziraphale’s glass. They were sitting very close to each other at the dinner table. They both sat at the same corner, Crowley at the head of the table and Aziraphale just perpendicular to him so that one of their knees knocked every time they reached over for something. Their plates were scraped clean. The bottle had been finished. There was nothing else they could do to drag the night out. No more pretense, no more niceties, no more polite conversation.

Right, then.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale began seriously, after a long, awkward lull in the conversation.

“Yes?”

“It’s...I have something to say,” he stated painfully. “Or, rather, I have something to say to you.”

Crowley screwed his face up nervously, scowl deep on his face. “You know, I really think I ought to start here.”

“No, no, it’s important, Crowley. I…” 

_Don’t lose your nerve Aziraphale. It’s for him. You’re doing this for him. It’s going to break his heart, but the alternative would just be worse. Go on._

“I’m sorry for...the way I acted. When you...said those things to me. I just. I...I needed time to think.” He was doing his thing again, and he could feel it. He was so obvious when he was nervous. His entire body thrummed, vibrating minutely, and he glanced down and fiddled with his ring. Outside the ring looked pristine and sparkled gold, but if one were to look on the inside edge of it they’d see it was worn down, scraped of its sheen, dull and worn and unimpressive. Aziraphale twisted it over and over in his hands, and couldn’t help but imagine that it was just like him. Nice, clean exterior; muddled, dull insides. 

_You’re doing him a favor._

“Aziraphale?” Crowley ventured, so softly. Aziraphale might even have said affectionately. He rested a careful hand atop his fiddling hands. 

Aziraphale looked up and no, it wasn’t meant to go like this. Crowley wasn’t meant to be _kind_ about this. He wanted Crowley to be _angry_ with him; it would be so much easier. 

Aziraphale’s lower lip started to tremble and quite suddenly Crowley had turned blurry round the edges from within Aziraphale’s watery eyes. He yanked his hands out from under Crowley’s and took a sharp breath.

“We can’t do this,” he whispered. Cleared his throat. “We can’t. I don’t…” _You have to. You have to._ “I don’t feel the same.” And God, it hurt. It hurt, it hurt. Every cell in his body refused the words and panged painfully at the lie. He screwed his eyes shut and a hot tear sprang from each eye and rolled down his cheeks at the action. Aziraphale wiped hard at his face, embarrassed and ashamed.

“I don’t feel the way...that you do. And I think...I think it’s best if you just take me back to London and---,” even his voice shook. Every breath he took was wrong and it ached and he had to do it. This would protect Crowley. This would keep him safe. _Say it. And say it again. Remember, this is for him._ He deserves better. He deserves better. He deserves better. “And we forget this ever happened. And---and we go our separate ways. That’s...yeah. That’s...best. There.” He looked up through wet lashes and used every bit of strength in his body to school his face into something harder, something determined and unmoved. It lost its effect, a bit, through Aziraphale’s glistening cheeks, the pink strained flush on his face, the red eyes. But he tried his best.

Crowley just danced his eyes over Aziraphale’s face, taking in all of it, strangely quiet and inexpressive. His hand hadn’t moved from where he’d placed it to grab Aziraphale’s and his damned glasses rested halfway down the bridge of his nose, the only hint of vulnerability Crowley was currently showing. Aziraphale could just see the tips of his eyelashes from here.

“What if I told you...what if I told you that I knew that wasn’t true?” Crowley said quietly into the small space between them. He reached up with the hand that wasn't outstretched towards Aziraphale’s on the table and pulled his glasses off his face slowly, slowly. 

“What...what?” Aziraphale floundered. “It is. It’s true. I don’t…” _Say it._ “I don’t.”

Crowley set his glasses on the table in front of him, beside his empty plate. He folded them carefully before he set them down, and seemed to take the moment to plan his next moves. He was walking over eggshells for some reason, Aziraphale could tell. He was...dancing around something. 

“I, uh… Well. Please, please don’t be mad,” he glanced up to measure Aziraphale’s face, and Aziraphale for one was, apart from the utter destruction of his soul, his pain and confusion and anxiety, very glad for the lack of glasses at a moment like this. This could be their last dinner, if Crowley reacted badly. He might never want to speak to him again, he might just shove him off the plank if he so liked. Aziraphale wouldn’t hold it against him. He’d understand. And he’d forgive him for it. But if it was the last, the last dinner, the last night, the last moments, he was glad he could soak in all of Crowley, one last time, free of barriers between them. At first, the eyes had startled him something fierce. It was so unexpected and jolting in the moment, and Aziraphale had still been processing it all when he’d first seen them. But as he had stared at that snake, so calm and stoic, on his chest, as he spoke his deepest darkest secrets and desires into that golden glow, he felt comfort. He saw there a steadiness and boldness he’d never felt inside himself before. It was heady and startling still, but for altogether different reasons now. And looking at him now, Aziraphale could never have imagined a different Crowley. It fit him so well. It was so perfect for him, so bright and steady and piercing. Just like him. And Aziraphale, in this very moment, decided he loved that about Crowley, too.

Crowley bounced his eyes back and forth between Aziraphale’s and apparently came to some sort of decision. “I...When we landed. On...on Muninn. Muninn Island, you know,” he stuttered, tripping over his words. “And I...I went...you know. I could. Well, I could...hear you. I heard it all, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s face went wonderfully blank for about five seconds and then his eyes widened comically. His expression turned into absolute terror and panic, his face paled something awful, and he immediately started panting, trying to catch his breath. His lungs had suddenly constricted and his throat had closed around a stem of thick, brambled thorns. “No, I...that’s not possible,” he got out with great effort. “You...I _asked_ you, I asked if you could hear me. And you didn’t...I don’t---”

“You asked me to blink, Aziraphale. Snakes can’t blink, love, they don’t have eyelids,” he said, small smile creeping on his face despite the absolute panic that Aziraphale was feeling. 

“No but you _hissed_ at me. That wasn’t you, I don’t...And I said all those things, oh my---” he started hyperventilating, eyes refusing to meet Crowley’s.

Oh, God, oh, God. 

“I’m sorry I hissed at you, I was...angry,” and Crowley had the decency to look ashamed for this. “I was hurt. I was heartbroken, and humiliated that I was this...thing. I hate it, and you hated it. And I couldn’t be there for you, and I couldn’t talk to you about it, and you had to see me looking like...looking like that. I was pissed, Aziraphale. That I couldn’t be more for you. I was mad at...mad at me. And then you tried to pick me up and I lost it, I lashed out. It was wrong, I’m sorry. I really am sorry for that. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He grasped at Aziraphale’s hands carefully, ready to be pushed away, to be hit, to be yelled at. Like Aziraphale would ever. 

“The things I said...just forget everything I said, I---”

“I can.” Crowley interrupted. “I can forget it all, if you like. I know that I wasn’t...meant to know all that. I’m sorry I intruded on you, it was wrong, I know. But I...I don’t want to forget. You said such lovely things. ‘Divine ecstasy’, I think you might have said?” The bastard, he was grinning.

Aziraphale barked out an unexpected laugh and he seemed to slowly catch his breath. “Everything I said, and that’s all you got?” He let an easy smile creep onto his face.

“I love you, too.” Crowley said quietly, and gripped his hand tight. He squeezed his fingers in a gesture of comfort, of vulnerability. “I love you, angel. I do. And I don’t deserve better, Aziraphale. I deserve...the worst. I deserve absolutely nothing at all but a life of solitude and pain and a slow, meaningless death. And then there’s you. Beautiful and smart and funny and just absolutely _perfect_. You look at me like I'm _worth_ something. Like I'm worth absolutely anything at all. And you think I want more? I want you, Aziraphale.” He whispered it all out, afraid of saying it, afraid of the answer, afraid of the silence. And yet. “I want you. I love you. It’s you, till the end. I meant that. And whatever you give, I’ll take it. I understand if you’ve changed your mind, or if you really just want to go home and never speak to me again, I can do that for you. I can. I promise, I’ll do whatever you want. But I...I want to love you. I want to love you properly. And I’ll follow you anywhere. If you’ll...if you’ll take me,” he finished anxiously, glancing down to look at their hands clasped tight together, fingers interlacing. He rubbed a thumb over the outside of Aziraphale’s ring, apparently adopting Aziraphale’s nervous tick for the moment.

He hesitated, and swallowed with a click. “You deserve better, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered back, painfully. 

“And I think _you_ deserve better, way better. Let’s just chalk it up to loving each other very much and forget about it for now, yeah?” Crowley squeezed his hands tightly around Aziraphale’s. “Let’s be selfish, just for a bit. Can I...can I kiss you? Please,” he breathed, and his eyes rested on Aziraphale’s glistening, soft, velvety lips.

Aziraphale’s eyes bounced all over his face, resting on each portion of it with devotion. Crowley’s glistening eyes resting on his lips. His freckles, standing out in the gleaming candlelight of the room. His sharp cheekbones just inches from his own soft, round ones. The veins in Crowley’s neck jumping at the proximity, at the need for more, more. He looked down at their hands pressed together, and realized that Crowley was everything he needed, everything he wanted. He was safe. This was safe. He finally looked up to Crowley’s lips, parted and wanting, and crashed their mouths together hungrily.

Aziraphale couldn’t see it, his own eyes had closed fiercely, a sense of giving in taking him over completely and all at once. But Crowley had screwed his eyes shut too, and one hot tear skated down his sharp cheek and stopped when it reached the tiny stubble at his jaw. He sighed a deep moan that came from the back of his throat and his hands flew up to cradle Aziraphale’s jaw carefully. Aziraphale, in turn, broke apart the kiss for a quick gasp of breath, and Crowley’s lips chased his, not bearing to be apart for even a moment. Aziraphale’s own hands fumbled up towards Crowley’s neck and circled it gently, rubbing careful circles into the skin under his earlobes. Crowley moaned again, low and throaty, desperate, aching. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale breathed into his mouth. “I love you.”

“I know, angel,” came the soft, dark reply. “I love you, too.”

Crowley was harsh in his kisses, unaware that now they had all the time in the world to be together, but currently trying to cram as much affection as possible into these fleeting moments. When Aziraphale snaked a hand into the nape of his neck to tug at the red hair by the roots, Crowley growled deeply and pushed forward into the kiss, hard. He was panting already, lost on the sensation of wet mouths licking against each other, of roaming hands and skin to skin. 

“Sorry,” he breathed when he pushed forward too demandingly, and felt a clink of teeth against his. He pulled back with a whine, but Aziraphale refused to let him go. He chased Crowley’s mouth by climbing directly into his lap, wrapping his legs around Crowley’s, straddling him in the tiny dinner chair. 

Crowley groaned loud, and Aziraphale turned his head to bite softly into the skin between Crowley’s neck and shoulder, and stifled a moan. 

“Take me to bed, Crowley,” he panted without looking up from Crowley’s neck. He continued to mouth wetly over the tattooed skin just beginning to peek out from under his shirt and he left gentle, roaming kisses as he went. 

Crowley went very still, suddenly. His hands were, unrealized by either of them until that very moment, lost in the heat of it all, cupped around Aziraphale’s arse beneath him, holding him up and closer to Crowley’s body, chasing the warmth and the pressure there. “Is that,” he panted. “Is that what you want? Are...are you sure?”

Aziraphale finally lifted his head, licking his lips as he went, tasting the heady taste of Crowley’s skin, of his sweat on his lips. “I want you. Do you...do you still…?”

“Yes, God, Satan, yes. A thousand times yes. Whatever you want, angel. I’ll do anything, love. What do you want? ”

“Take me to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \-- haha i tricked y'all into reading a stardust au!!!! i stole (was inspired by) the scene in stardust, also by neil gaiman, with tristan and the star. i won't spoil it (although technically i think i already might have) for those who haven't read the book or watched the movie yet, but i highly recommend!!! (it's on netflix too :) ). there's pirates in it, too.  
> \--sorry for taking a bit longer on this one, i think i'm going back to my regularly scheduled once a week updates because things are getting a lil wild for me again. thank you, thank you, thank you as always.  
> \-------also on a personal note, i have to say i got really sad this week? i was just thinking about how we're winding down in the fic, no more than ten chapters left i'd say. and that actually makes me really sad, this has been my first real journey into writing and publishing literally anything EVER and you all have been so surprisingly supportive, and lovely, and people are actually READING this. like. that alone is so mind-blowing for me. it makes me sad to see it end. i had trouble writing this chapter because i just don't want to ever stop doing this. that's how lovely and nice you all are, and i owe absolutely all of it to y'all. to your gentle and sweet comments and the kudos, and shares, and bookmarks. some of you have me on EMAIL NOTIFICATIONS. just. i love you all so much. i'm inviting y'all out for drinks when this is all over. thank you for being here, truly. okay rant over. :')


	20. say it again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is ALL EXPLICIT PLEASE NOTE THE RATING HAS CHANGED AND YOU ARE STEPPING INTO A PURELY EXPLICIT ZONE IN THIS CHAPTER OK. however, if you would like to skip this chapter for any reason, you will miss absolutely none of the plot or story-line in any way so just tune in next week same as always!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen. did i think the boys were gonna do this in the original plotline? yes, definitely. was i gonna write it? no, because i was nervous to do it and convinced i wouldn't do it justice and just sure that it just wasn't gonna happen. it was just gonna be in my head, and i would just deal with that. and then i read the comments and....well. what can i say. the people have spoken. and i thought. fuck it.... for y'all..... WE'RE DOING IT. ENJOY
> 
> ///
> 
> "i really don't know what  
> 'i love you'  
> means.  
> i think it means  
> 'don't leave me here alone'.

“Aziraphale, please, oh God,” he whined, loud and keening.

“What, Crowley, what do you want?” he was panting. They were both panting, hard. Desperate, hot, frantic.

Aziraphale snaked his hand under Crowley’s body underneath him, held his hand solidly against the small of Crowley’s back and pulled hard, bringing his naked body even closer to his own. Their bare hips rubbed against each other, and they rutted, skin against skin, no slowing down, no hesitation.

“God, I don’t know,” Crowley responded truthfully, eyebrows pulled up and eyes screwed shut in a face that in any other situation may have demonstrated pain. Here was nothing but intense, divine pleasure. “I don’t...anything, angel.” His hands had been roaming heavily and dragged back up and down the plump, bare body above him. The skin seemed to stretch forever, curves and dips, the slight swell of his torso, the dip at his spine, the hard lines of his shoulders where he could swear he’d find angel wings if he pressed hard enough. 

Aziraphale pumped his hips in the small crease between Crowley’s sharp hip bone and the dark red, almost black hair that trailed underneath his stomach, and the pressure made Crowley cry out and drag fingernails roughly down Aziraphale’s back. Their legs were tangled impossibly, one of Crowley’s wrapped up and over Aziraphale’s arse, Aziraphale’s toes curling and seeking purchase between Crowley’s legs spread wide. 

Aziraphale sucked gently at the space underneath Crowley’s earlobe and whispered there at the wet skin, “I love you. Oh, Crowley, you’re so good for me.” 

Crowley moaned, loud and uncaring. This is another thing he’d noticed about Aziraphale; something he’d daydreamed about knowing from the very beginning, but knowledge he never dared to imagine he might ever be privy to. 

How he’d be in bed, here, like this. 

Turns out he was quiet and fond; not slow, necessarily, or teasing, just more the type to admire and explore in adoration and sweetness. He muttered in Crowley’s ear and whispered things that only served to make his blood tremble and the pressure in his belly surge. But mostly he stifled moans quietly and placed soft nibbles anywhere he could reach. 

It was different, actually, from all the images he’d ever considered in his many daydreams. Aziraphale seemed one to overindulge in most things. He loved good food, and ate till he was happily stuffed. When he drank, he drank as much as he liked, and never even thought to limit the happiness that a good wine would bring him. And when he kissed, he kissed deeply and reverently, never wanting to pull away. And even now, the noises he stifled before they ever emerged were in direct contrast to his demanding body that pushed and pushed and pushed with no sense of control or moderation, just pleasure-seeking and hedonism, unashamed and desperate. But his lips barely parted, and his face was determined and concentrated in its efforts to still the outbursts, the moans, the cries. Like he still wasn’t sure if he could have this. Like he wouldn’t dare break the spell.

It only made Crowley louder, in the end. He wanted to let Aziraphale know how good this was, how much he wanted it, how willing he was to give everything, everything, everything. His hair was splayed artfully over the white linen bed sheets below him, and it was now matted and damp at the hairline and at the roots. His lips were red and rough from biting and kissing. And his mouth was wide open, always. Crowley couldn’t help it even if he tried; Aziraphale could coax any sound from deep in his throat, in his lungs, in his heart. Aching sobs were pulled from deep in his stomach, from the need for release, and also the hope that it would never end. 

When Aziraphale sucked at his nipples, he moaned, long and needy. 

When Aziraphale nipped at his Adam’s apple he groaned instead. 

When his mouth worshipped at each tattoo, each mark of loving ink under his skin, he whimpered desperately and his body trembled like a leaf. 

When his hands were pinned high over his head, it was a rumbling growl that made his back arch fiercely against Aziraphale’s belly, knees pulled up instinctively in mock protest at the loss of control. Oh, but he loved it, he loved it. 

It wasn’t till Aziraphale’s mouth floated downwards, placing wet, burning hot kisses down his ribs and further still to nose at the curls beneath his hips that he let out the first deafening cry. 

And when Aziraphale flipped him over on the bed to press prayers and adoration into each vertebrae he began to babble, begging and pleading for anything, anything. 

“Please, Aziraphale,” he cried into the sheets. “Please, please, please, _fuck_ , _fuck_ , _oh_ \---”

His tongue trailed lower, and lower, and lower. 

Crowley’s hips were pulled up with gentle hands, rubbing soothing circles into his rough skin. “May I?”

Crowley moaned another long, desperate thing and pushed his head further against the sheets. His hands were braced solidly beside his head, and they made a dent with the weight and pressure there. His hands fisted and balled the sheets in between bony fingers. “ _Fuck, yes angel,_ I---fuck, fuck---- _ah_ ,” he sobbed, mouth dropping open and drooling over the bed as he felt a searing hot stripe being painted in between his cheeks and then pressing inside insistingly against the tightness, rolling, and sucking, and slithering with an agility that took Crowley’s breath away. “ _Angel,_ ” he breathed, dragging out the sound blindly. He was putty in Aziraphale’s hands, and his spine threatened to turn liquid-y and snake-like again if this continued for much longer.

“Angel, please, _fuck_ , please kiss me, kiss me,” he babbled incoherently; his mouth was way, way past inconsequential niceties like grammar and full sentences. His hips pushed down by instinct further into the wet heat of Aziraphale, chasing the feeling, deeper still, and felt a surge of heat spark through his body at the press of a certain angle of a tongue in his body. 

As the tongue carefully slipped out and hands pulled cheeks apart, Crowley continued his ecstatic litany of, “ _Oh God_ , oh God, oh God, I _can’t_ , Aziraphale, please---” and a tongue was suddenly being shoved roughly between his lips. He tasted different. He tasted like them both. 

Aziraphale climbed back up Crowley’s body to cover his spine protectively and pressed one hand to his sternum, pressing him up, and then moved it to slot around Crowley’s throat, just barely touching, to direct his face closer to his. His hands and his mouth were unrelenting, but every touch was trembling and impossibly soft and adoring. 

Nothing that Crowley thought he would ever, ever get. 

It was heady, it was dizzying, it was every drunken fantasy, every night alone with a hand round himself, it was every whispered daydream that mouthed Aziraphale’s name into the unknowing night; only better. So, so much better.

Aziraphale only kissed him for a moment, before he pulled away to turn Crowley’s body back over, belly up, and then his mouth was upon him again, pulling the breath out from deep within his lungs. Crowley whispered, painfully, “I’m not gonna last, angel, I’m sorry, I’m trying, I can’t, I _can’t_ ,” he sobbed with each touch. His freckles bloomed happily over his red, flushed cheeks, his blade-sharp cheekbones. 

“It’s okay, love, me too, I know,” Aziraphale soothed as he placed tender kisses into Crowley’s temples, over his brow. It was sickeningly sweet and it made Crowley’s eyes unexpectedly a little watery. 

One of Aziraphale’s hands was braced next to Crowley’s head, and the other combed errant hairs out of Crowley’s face, stuck with sweat over his eyes and down his neck. “Open your eyes, love,” he muttered in the space over Crowley’s mouth. Crowley immediately screwed his eyes shut tighter, only to pop them open obediently under Aziraphale’s intense gaze. “You’re gorgeous, Crowley,” he said with a smile.

“Tell me you love me again,” Crowley panted.

“God, I love you. So much, Crowley.”

“Say it again.”

“I love you, Crowley.”

“Say it again, say it again,” and his eyes screwed shut again.

“I love you,” came the words, whispered against his eyelids.

“I love you,” breathed into his jawline.

“I love you,” into his collarbone. 

“Crowley, love,” into his mouth. A question. “Crowley.”

“ _Ah,_ ” the reply as his hips rutted upwards into Aziraphale’s. “Whu-?”

“I want...I want to be---” and he skated a hand down Crowley’s ribs to grip tight at his hip. “Can I? If, if you want---”

The replying keen was enough to answer the question floating in the air. “God, _yes_ , now, now, please.”

“Easy, love,” Aziraphale chuckled quietly.

Crowley moaned and arched his back deeply, head pressing hard into the bed below him, leaving his neck exposed. He looked so vulnerable. “Call me that again,” he demanded.

“Call you what?” Aziraphale smiled cruelly, feigning ignorance.

“ _Please, angel, please_ \---” a dry sob slipped out and cut him off.

“Okay, okay. I’ve got you, love, it’s okay,” he whispered back, placing a soothing kiss at his neck. “My love.” He detached his mouth briefly to push one long, plump finger into his own mouth and drooled over it, lips dragging and pulling over it as Crowley watched with glittering eyes. He pulled it out with a pop and let his hand trail further down between Crowley’s legs. 

It was slow, at first. It was agonizingly slow. Crowley knew he wouldn’t make it to the end, body shaking hard with the effort of holding off, his muscles tense and tired, his breath coming only in gasping pants now, fingers digging bruises into Aziraphale’s back and hips. The push was unlike anything Crowley had ever felt, the pressure, the slide inside of him, and Crowley was glad that it was Aziraphale that had quietly chosen to take control for the night. If it had been Crowley instead, he would have lost his mind already. But next time, next time Crowley would make it so good for him. He’d drag it out, he’d do everything with him, he’d give him everything he wanted.

Oh God, next time.

Crowley groaned deeply at the thought of a next time, and that he could do that now with Aziraphale, if he wanted. There was nothing stopping them anymore. They had each other now.

“Now, now, now, _now_ , angel,” he tripped over his own words in the sudden urgency that closed around his throat. 

“Okay, okay---” and Aziraphale sounded as desperate as Crowley did, breathless and wide-eyed.

And just like that, there was a pressure, and a slide, and a fullness Crowley couldn’t comprehend for a moment. His body was pushed up the bed with the force of it and his ankles hooked tightly over Aziraphale’s waist. His mouth was wide open and gasping for breath and his golden eyes stared straight up into Aziraphale’s glistening blue ones. He didn’t move for a long time. Aziraphale looked just as shell-shocked, eyes dancing back and forth over Crowley’s face, searching for any sign of discomfort or pain. They sat there, embracing for a long, long moment. 

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale finally spoke into the fragile, gentle space between them. 

Crowley stared up, mouth still struggling to close, and nodded his head imperceptibly.

Aziraphale looked down at the place where their bodies were joined and let out a trembling breath and a tiny whimper that resulted in a little unconscious push of Aziraphale’s body closer into Crowley’s. “Oh God, sorry,” he panted, barely heard over the strangled moan that floated out of Crowley’s parted lips. Crowley moved his hands from Aziraphale’s shoulders to reach around to his thighs and pulled him deeper forward still, and they both cried out together.

“I can’t, Aziraphale, I’m sorry, I’m gonna---”

“Yeah, me too, it’s okay, love,” and he rolled his hips against Crowley’s hard, and again, and faster, and again, and harder, and again, and again, and again.

Crowley sank his teeth deep into Aziraphale’s shoulder without an ounce of self-control when it finally happened. He tasted copper, a bit, and knew it was wrong and it probably hurt Aziraphale, but Crowley couldn’t do anything but let his body tense and pulse uncontrollably underneath Aziraphale’s. His hands gripped tightly out of pure reflex and a hot tear rolled down his face at the intensity of it. 

Aziraphale followed just a moment after Crowley. At the first sign of tightening in Crowley’s body his own body responded with one final stuttering push. Crowley could feel the movement inside of him, the wetness, the slick slide. This part, he was quiet for, his lungs empty of breath and his heart completely stopped in its ecstasy.

Aziraphale didn’t move out of Crowley, and they laid like that for a long while, until Aziraphale’s arms began to tremble with the effort of not collapsing over his body. He slipped out, slowly, carefully, soothingly, and moved to settle at Crowley’s side and curl around his outstretched limbs. Crowley whined quietly at the loss, and Aziraphale mouthed at his jawline in apology. He lifted shaking fingers to turn Crowley’s face to his, and pressed his lips chastely, adoringly to his own. 

They breathed into each other’s mouths for a long while, Crowley’s eyes wide, searching Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale closed his eyes and relished in the moment, the afterglow, the surge of affection that felt a bit like drowning.

Crowley looked at the downy white hair matted on Aziraphale’s forehead, lips parted and soft and wet, his eyelashes resting over his plump cheeks. He reached out to place one hand into Aziraphale’s and tangled their fingers together tightly. 

“I love you, too, you know.”

Aziraphale screwed his eyes shut, a small movement, and little worry lines appeared between his brows. His body tensed and he suddenly looked very small. Breakable.

“Do you regret it yet?” he said, with a voice more fragile than Crowley had ever heard from him.

“Of course not,” Crowley soothed, trying to put as much feeling into it as he could, desperate to show Aziraphale how much he meant it. “Of course not, Aziraphale. I couldn’t. Do...do you?”

And Aziraphale’s eyes drifted open, glassy and blue like porcelain. “I love you.”

“Say it again,” Crowley whispered with a little smile on his face.

“I love you.”

“Say it again,” he teased, and he tightened his fingers in Aziraphale’s, pushed his face closer to Aziraphale’s, breathed in the air and light and love that was Aziraphale.

And the soft and sure reply came, again, and again, and again, “I love you, Crowley. I love you. I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ................................................................


	21. ouroboros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lots of fluff, but there are still some *mature scenes* just fyi. not explicit, but definitely insinuating, for those of you who aren't quite into that. apologies. anyway this one is just two idiots finally getting to love each other :) <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all had the absolute NICEST responses to the last chapter, you little angels. so you can have a little fluff, as a treat.   
> ///  
> past lives couldn't ever hold me down  
> lost love is sweeter when it's finally found;  
> i've got the strangest feeling  
> this isn't our first time around

Crowley awoke early the next morning to the feeling of eyes upon him.

He was pulled out of unconsciousness slowly, his muscles settled in after a deep, deep night’s rest. He made a rumbling sound in the back of his throat before squeezing his eyes closed tighter against the sun streaming in, light and floaty in the room. 

All at once he remembered everything, and opened his eyes to adoring blue ones searching his face with a tenderness and affection that could not be spoken aloud. Already, Crowley’s shriveled heart was hoping to get used to this, was getting spoiled already, the damn thing. Blond eyelashes fluttered like butterflies softly on an angel’s plump, giving cheeks.

“Good morning, dear,” Aziraphale spoke softly in the small space between their faces. They had fallen asleep entangled in each other, and had ended up with Crowley’s head resting under Azirpahale’s arm, forehead cradled on Aziraphale’s chest. 

Crowley cleared his throat gently and gave him a soft, thin smile. “Hello, gorgeous,” he murmured.

Or at least, he meant to. It actually came out sounding more of a grumble, voice surprisingly hoarse after last night. Well, actually...not that surprising, really. He cleared his throat, embarrassed, and tried again. 

“Sounds like I got a bit...carried away there last night,” he said with a teasing air, but it lost its effect as a dark red flush darkened his face all at once. “I, uh. Hmm,” he attempted, knowing he sounded like an idiot. He wasn’t normally very coherent in the mornings, but now with a sated, sighing angel lying wrapped around him, under him, naked? Words eluded him like...like something.

“How about now?” Aziraphale breathed out, and his face was paled, emotions suddenly very carefully pulled into an air of forced apathy, a practiced blank expression. All that affection placed carefully into a nondescript box and hidden in a corner for the timebeing.

“Um. What?” he muttered eloquently, shaking his head in confusion at the sudden change in tone.

“How about now?” He spoke again. Crowley just waited. “Do you...regret it? It’s okay if you do, I...I get it, and I know you’re just being kind, it’s alright, I’ll just---”

“Hey. Hey, look at me, angel,” Where Crowley had been aloof and sleepy just a minute ago, he was now very awake, heart tearing itself into shreds like a rejected little love note being torn into nothingness. “I don’t. Regret it. I could never. You’re…” he stumbled for the right words. “Please believe me. Of course I don’t regret this.” He waited for a response, anything from Aziraphale, but he only glanced away from Crowley’s piercing yellow gaze and picked at the bedsheets rumpled around his waist. He unconsciously pulled them up higher on his body, just a bit. “I will never regret you. Last night was...something else. You were...so good to me. You know I’ve never...you’re, ah. The first.” He cleared his throat quietly, voice still struggling after its misuse of the previous night. “And I. Well, I’d be happy if you were the last. But that’s...well, that’s neither here nor...there.”

“Really? I was…” Aziraphale started hopefully.

“The first? Yup.” And he popped the last consonant a little, clearly uncomfortable with this new feeling of vulnerability and trying to veer it closer to humorous territory, joking, teasing. That, Crowley was good at. That he could do. 

But he had to be brave here. For Aziraphale. He had to. 

And he would be. He would try.

“I was good?” Aziraphale mumbled instead in a delicate voice.

Crowley furrowed his brows, confused on how Aziraphale could have ever believed himself to be anything less than fucking perfect. Was it him that made Aziraphale feel that way? Had he not said enough, put enough affection into his gaze, enough love into his fingertips?

“Angel,” he sighed sadly, and pushed himself up quickly onto one elbow to hover his face over Aziraphale’s, and then surged forward into a powerful kiss that pressed Aziraphale’s head into the pillow, his fluffy white tufts of hair flattening under the pressure. Crowley tried his best, he did, he tried, to press every feeling he had into the kiss. He pressed those velvet lips to his own scaly, thin ones and tried to push the love into the wet, hot space where his tongue sat. He took the hand that wasn't being used to hold himself up and pressed it reverently along Aziraphale’s jawline, cradling it like stroking the petals on a small, fragile flower. 

Slowly, Aziraphale opened up and began to move his head in tandem to Crowley’s. He brought a trembling hand to Crowley’s own face, first cupping his cheek gently, then sliding it to the back of his head, tangling his fingers into the copper-red curls at the nape of his neck. He scratched his nails back and forth on the scalp and felt Crowley sigh against his lips.

“I’ll show you,” Crowley whispered angrily into the hot space of Aziraphale’s mouth. He tossed one leg over Aziraphale’s hips and basked in the heated gasp Aziraphale gave at the touch, at the friction, at the implication. Crowley’s mind helpfully supplied the memory of Aziraphale sitting just like this, once upon a time, feeding him some (hot, although that’s not the sensation Crowley remembers the most) soup. He wondered if Aziraphale feels now the way Crowley felt then; the best kind of helpless, vulnerable, raw. Taken care of.

Taken care of.

“I’ll show you how much you mean to me, how much this means to me,” he whispered, moving his lips to drag his teeth down Aziraphale’s Adam’s apple. “And we’re not leaving this room until you believe me,” he said with a finality that was difficult to argue with. He moved his mouth to Aziraphale’s shoulder, and mouthed and sucked at the bite-mark he’d left there before, kissing reverent apologies into the sensitive skin. 

They didn’t leave the room for many hours.

When they finally decided to emerge from the bed, it was midday, and they both looked absolutely wrecked. Crowley stood from the bed, legs barely functioning and feeling like a puppet whose strings had been cut loose, and held out a hand in invitation to an angel lying in his bed. 

“Come on, love, let’s get you in the bath, yeah?” Crowley said softly, and gently held Aziraphale’s hand as he lifted from the bed. 

“In here?” he asked.

“Yup,” and he popped the ‘p’ at the end again. “Perks of sleeping with the boss. You get to use the private bathroom,” he said with a wide, teasing grin, and Aziraphale laughed heartily and gave him a scolding look. He was so less guarded now, Crowley could tell. It took hours of prying and kissing and moving and touching, and it took countless affirmations moaned and whined and spoken into the spaces between their bodies, their aching hearts, their solid ribs. And even then, the angel wasn’t really convinced, not really, but now there was a part of him that was letting himself believe that maybe, maybe, maybe. He was laughing at jokes now openly, he was touching Crowley first instead of waiting for an accidental graze of skin to revel in, he was staring adoringly instead of stealing glances out of the corner of his eye. Crowley even got Aziraphale to moan properly, openly, once or twice in the middle of it all. Like suddenly he didn’t feel watched and followed and pursued, like the eyes of the Royals, like the eyes of the world were, for once, turned elsewhere. Like somebody actually wanted him, cared for him. Somehow. And he could be free, for a minute.

As they soaked in the bath together, Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley’s crimson hair, turned straight and almost black from the hot water. It was soft like velvet, and once it was wet Aziraphale could see how long it really was, almost to his mid-back.

Crowley was careful to wash and caress the bite-mark on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and then pressed another embarrassed kiss to the skin there. “I’m sorry,” he breathed into the pink skin, and Aziraphale took the opportunity to take his face and turn it towards his own for another searing, loving kiss. 

“So why the pears, then?” Aziraphale asked Crowley as he rubbed a soapy washcloth over Crowley’s back. Aziraphale had pushed Crowley until he’d turned around between his legs so that he could properly wash down his spine and so that he could play with the hair that cascaded down his shoulders.

“Oh, I barely remember getting that one, it was so long ago,” Crowley muttered, shivering as Aziraphale’s hand ran down his back. “I just...like pears.”

Aziraphale ran his fingers over the precious inked skin before him. “What about this one?” He skated his fingertips down to his waist on the left side, and the skin was slippery and wet. Crowley shuddered this time, a whole-body tremble that was more than just from the cold air around them. 

“The sword or the snake one?”

“Both.”

“Well, the sword,” and he reached around his back to take hold of Aziraphale’s hand and drag it from his left hipbone up to his ribs, “that’s the sword I have now. Had it specially made on an island, years ago. It’s..a reminder...sort of.”

“What’s the reminder?”

“That I can never be...soft. The moment I stop fighting, the moment I let my guard down, people get hurt. The people around me get hurt. Got to be sharp, see,” he finished sadly. Aziraphale used his other hand to peel Crowley’s dripping wet hair away from his shoulder in order to press a soft kiss there. 

“And this one,” and Crowley moved his hand around his waist, closer to the front of his torso, “---is Ouroboros. It’s a symbol of rebirth, very old mark. It’s about the infinite nature of the universe but also...the idea that every time a snake sheds its skin, it is born again. Both the certainty of a terrifying, never-ending, never-caring world but also its ability for change, for...renewal.”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “And in addition to that, it has nothing to do at all with the fact that it’s a snake and you like snakes?”

Crowley chuckled and said, “Absolutely not, how dare you insinuate that I get tattoos simply because they’re _nice_. They’re all meaningful. Powerful. And very cool.” he said with a very serious and _not at all_ teasing, sarcastic tone. 

“Well, it does look very nice, dear,” and Crowley laughed again. “Turns out I really like snakes, actually,” and at this Crowley stiffened under his touch. “They’re not as bad as they seem, really.” Aziraphale tipped forward and pressed another open kiss to the top of Crowley’s spine and rested his forehead at the nape of his neck. “My love,” he breathed quietly.

Crowley immediately pulled away only to turn around as much as he was able to in the small tub and grabbed Aziraphale’s face with both hands to press a hard kiss to his lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

When they finally made it out of the tub, more time than they’d intended had passed and they emerged prune-y and warm and sated.

Once they’d made their way to the bedroom, they’d taken each other’s garments and carefully dressed each other, fingertips lingering over skin when they passed over it, buttons closed gently like they were made of glass. Collars were adjusted and socks were pulled up and sheaths were attached to hips. Aziraphale toweled down Crowley’s hair until it was relatively dry and the curls had once again made their appearance over his head.

“May I try something?” asked Aziraphale.

“Anything, angel.”

“Do you remember that first day we met? That very first day?”

“Of course,” Crowley responded quietly.

“You had strips of cloth braided in your hair. You looked so beautiful, dear, I remember,” Aziraphale spoke with a fond smile on his face.

Crowley wordlessly stood and walked to his dresser and pulled out many thin lines of cloth of several colors, some muted and dark and some bright and colorful. But all of them looked so very like Crowley. He sat on the bed, placed the cloths in Aziraphale’s hand and closed his eyes trustingly.

“Well? Go on, then.” They finally made their way out for sunset, having wasted an entire day in each other’s arms, exploring this newfound freedom to speak, to touch, to feel. Crowley was dressed all in black, typical for him, but the shirt was silk and he wore a black waistcoat underneath, chosen by Aziraphale, of course. His hair was worn down but there were two tiny, thin braids that ran down either side of his face, framing it, and there was one black strand woven into one side and a mustard yellow one on the other. 

He wasn’t wearing any glasses, and the setting sun was no contest against the bright honeyed color of Crowley’s eyes glittering in the dimming daylight. 

Aziraphale wore one of the regular white shirts that he’d been given so long ago, not having much else to wear, but the sleeves were folded up to his elbows and he wore a nice pair of tan trousers and shiny black shoes. 

They looked happy.

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley pulled on Aziraphale’s hand and walked him out towards the deck, but where Aziraphale had been open and adoring in the bedroom, suddenly he’d turned quiet and strange as they stepped into fresh air. Crowley felt a tug on the hand behind him and suddenly the hand slipped out of his. Crowley looked back, surprised, and took in Aziraphale’s face. For some reason, his eyes were suddenly wide and worried, his face paled and drawn. His hands were back towards his body, twisting at that infernal ring on his finger. “Angel? What’s wrong?” Crowley felt his stomach twist roughly and felt acid rise up quickly in his throat. 

_Too fast._

Crowley tried to apologize, to ask for forgiveness for being so forward, for assuming this was okay, for thinking that maybe they could be something. _I’d love you less, if I could. If that’s what you wanted._ His mind immediately ran through a thousand scenarios, a thousand apologies, and they all got stuck in his throat. He felt a pang that felt too much like that _We shouldn’t_ so long ago. That _I don’t feel the same_ just yesterday, even knowing it wasn’t the truth. Already, he’d done something to ruin it. 

His eyes turned involuntarily glassy and he clenched his hand into a frustrated fist, mad at himself for ruining everything, somehow. He missed his sunglasses quite suddenly. He cleared his throat and got ready to say, _You can love me behind closed doors, if you like. If that’s all you’re willing to give, I’ll take it._

But Aziraphale spoke first.

“Won’t they...is this okay?” 

“Nn--what?” _Smooth, Crowley._

“The...others. Won’t they...remark on...us?” he rubbed at his hands incessantly.

“Wh...you’re worried they’ll see us?” and he searched Aziraphale’s face desperately, looking for an explanation like it’d be written on the worry lines stretching across Aziraphale’s round face.

“I mean...you. And me. With a man. Would they…?”

_Oh._

“Oh, they don’t...they definitely don’t care, angel. I mean, at least half the crew onboard is...em, flexible about that stuff. You don’t have to worry about them, if that’s what that is,” he soothed, careful to feel relieved yet, in case he’d got it wrong, but hope carefully started to bloom deep in his chest without his permission.

“Oh. Oh, well, that’s alright. It’s just...well, in London it’s not. It’s not quite like that. I could never...and a Royal. Worse, still. You know.”

His heart ached for the angel, wondering how many times he’d had to hide himself away, had to pretend he wasn’t the way he was, that he couldn’t love who he loved, all for some people who didn’t even know him, didn’t even care to try to understand. How many people he’d loved quietly, in hiding, alone. “No, angel. You’re okay here,” he said quietly, and slowly tangled their fingers back together. “Actually, Anathema is with Newt now, you know the one that---”

“Yes, dear, I know who Newt is.”

“Well, before him, Anathema has been known to have left a string of hearts behind her, both men and women. Till Newt, that is. They’re married now.”

“Really? I didn’t know that,” said Aziraphale, a wondrous smile crawling slowly onto his face. “I actually didn’t know they were married, either.” 

“Oh, yes. Took them long enough. Newt couldn’t get the courage to do it for a long time. Eventually, Anathema just took matters into her own hands. I married them myself, actually. I can do that as Captain, did you---” but he was cut off by an angel suddenly pressed up against his chest, holding his hips in his hands. “---know that?” He finished lamely.

“So this is okay? Even...even out there?” Aziraphale moved closer still to press his nose close to Crowley’s, breathing in the same oxygen that Crowley was breathing out.

“Yes, angel. This is...this is more than okay,” he breathed. He wanted to surge forward and kiss him senseless, finally letting out a sigh of relief at not being too much, at the fact that Aziraphale still hadn’t changed his mind. Still wanted him. Still loved him. But he waited for Aziraphale to take the first step, and he did. 

The kiss was chaste, and forgiving.

Crowley thought he could die like this, he could. This could be it, and he’d be ready for it. 

They stepped apart, and Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in his own, and he took a step forward, into the sunlight. 

And just like that, it became them against the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bisexual anathema, just because i said so. :) also THANK YOU FOR THE LOVELY COMMENTS YOU ALL ARE ANGELS, EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU. much love!!! every single time i get a notification about a comment, kudo, hit, bookmark, whatever, i get a rush of serotonin that carries me throughout my crazy life and these wild times. thank you from the bottom of my heart. see you next week! stay safe! and message me via comments, tumblr, whatever if you would like to talk about absolutely anything, i promise i'm fun okay


	22. quite a nice vintage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sliiiiight angst because i thrive on pain BUT lots of cutesy shit, lots of conversations! (finally, my goodness, i think they have a lot to catch up on don't you??) enjoy!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH
> 
> //
> 
> "there is no sweeter innocence,   
> than our gentle sin;  
> in the madness and soil of that  
> sad earthly scene,  
> only then i am human,  
> only then i am clean.

The sun had decided to put on a show today, it seemed. It was halfway down the horizon by the time Crowley and Aziraphale had made it out onto the deck, hand in hand. It sank ever so slowly down into the line of the dark blue sea, and it made ripples of gold and orange-red dance along the shifting waters below. It turned the sky a range of bright colors; purples and pinks and dark blues and soft yellows.

Aziraphale was a bit shy, still, walking across the deck, into the fresh air, into the wide-open world with a pirate, with a man. With Crowley. But Crowley was having none of that, it seemed. He was gently pulling the angel forward by their interlaced fingers and he swung their hands happily, proudly, before the world. His face was giddy and unbelieving. His red hair bounced and shone in the shimmering daylight, and his glasses rested in the deep cut of the neck of his black shirt. He kept trying to catch Aziraphale’s eyes, to share in his glee, in his pride. He managed to pull a sweet, nervous smile out of Aziraphale one of the times he was looking back. It was...breathtaking.

“Boss!”

“Hm?” Crowley answered absentmindedly at the voice that had somehow appeared in front of him. It took him a good second to wrench his eyes away from Aziraphale’s, stupid little smile still playing on his own lips.

But at the sound, Aziraphale’s eyes widened in panic and he yanked his hand out of Crowley’s grip harshly, pulling his fingers out from their tight embrace. He took a startled step back.

In that moment that it took him to turn his head from Aziraphale’s face behind him to that of the face in front of him, his shoulders had slumped almost imperceptibly and the smile soured into a sad, thin line. 

_Don’t push him._

_You’re going too fast._

_He could still change his mind._

His eyes turned glassy and he squeezed his cold, empty hand into a cold, empty fist. “What, Adam?” He tried to make it sound annoyed, icy. 

But it came out sad. 

Tired.

“Dinner’s ready, we saved some for you and…” He said it quietly, for once sensing the tension before him.

There was a slight pause where they all waited for Adam to finish, but instead of a sound, Crowley jumped at a sudden touch at his fist. He looked down to find plump fingers skating over his tightened hand, apologies clear in their movements, in their gentle touch. When Crowley looked back up at Aziraphale’s face, he couldn’t mask the open vulnerability and hurt and hope etched all over his features, only to see the exact same expression on Aziraphale’s.

He relaxed the tight clench of his hands and Aziraphale slipped his fingers back into Crowley’s with a hesitant step forward into Crowley’s space. 

_God, I love him,_ thought Crowley helplessly. 

“So it’s true?” asked Adam curiously. “You’re boyfriends? Official-like?”

“Do _not_ say _boyfriends_ ,” spat Crowley, fighting against the hard thump his stupid heart gave at the term, but also refusing to sink so low in his reputation as to have a _boyfriend_. Like he was a crushing schoolboy passing notes over desks. And they hadn’t even really decided anything yet, were they together? Did Aziraphale want that? Clearly, Aziraphale was having trouble with this as it was, it seemed and----

“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale said patiently, and took another little step forward to where Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s proximity and warmth on his back. Crowley turned to look at him and felt his heart jump into his throat and close around it, the oxygen suddenly not enough, the distance between them suddenly too far, even as they were touching. He wanted to drag Aziraphale back to their room and---

Their room.

Crowley couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t falling in love. He was free falling. He was drowning, hard and fast. 

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Wicked. Got to go collect some bets, then,” Adam said excitedly, and both Crowley and Aziraphale turned quickly to look at him. 

“What?” Crowley asked, gaping at the boy.

“Oh, yeah, whole crew was wonderin’ when it would happen. Madame Tracy was quite shocked it was taking so long. Pepper’ll be disappointed, she’d said another week still. Anathema got it right on the money, it seems. To be expected, of course,” Adam explained calmly, unaware of the beautiful shades of wine-crimson the two men before him were currently exhibiting. “Oh, and by the way, could you all keep it down a bit? It’s a very small ship, you know. _Some_ of us actually have to get up early and _work_ on this bloody ship,” Adam grumbled as he began trailing away. 

Aziraphale had turned a deep burgundy color in his entire face that was so alarming that if the situation had been any different, Crowley may have assumed he was choking on something and quickly running out of breath. Aziraphale dropped his head onto the back of Crowley’s shoulder, embarrassed and out of words.

Crowley let out a string of incoherent noises for a good second or two before shouting at Adam’s retreating back, “This is _my_ ship, and I’ll be as loud as I like!” Adam turned around with a wicked, larger-than-life grin to chuckle at the picture of the two blushing, grown men, and Crowley, upon looking at the teasing look, couldn’t help but let a disbelieving smile crawl onto his face unbidden. 

“Can you _believe_ the gall on that boy,” he muttered as he slowly turned around, careful to give Aziraphale time to lift his head off his shoulder. He squeezed Aziraphale’s fingers carefully in his grip.

Aziraphale looked up into Crowley’s unguarded eyes and was silent for a moment before opening his mouth and quickly pushing out from within his lungs a quick and pained, “I’m sorry.” Crowley just creased his eyebrows and waited. What he was apologizing for was a mystery to him, in fact it was him who should be apologizing for Adam’s...crude behavior. Adam and Crowley had always got on like that, a teasing banter their most common dialogue, but maybe it was too soon for Aziraphale to be joking about this, too much.

_Too much, always too much._

“I’m sorry, I….the way I reacted. It’s...not you,” Aziraphale started, still piecing his thoughts together and glancing quickly from side to side at the people milling about around them. “I love you, I do. This...this is okay. I just. I’ve spent a lifetime hiding from the world, never being able to love someone in...in public. Pulling away, it was...it was instinct. It--it might take me more than a day to...to forget that. But it’s not right!” he exclaimed quickly, the words pouring out of him quickly now, “It’s not right and I’m sorry and I don’t mean...I don’t mean anything by it, it’s not you. But if...if that’s not alright we can slow down and I’ll do my best to---”

“Aziraphale, angel,” Crowley interrupted. “We can go as slow as you like. It’s okay. I just...I need to hear it. I need you to remind me that you love me, if...if you love me, that is. I just need to know it, and everything else is okay, alright?”

“But it’s not alright, it’s---”

“I know. But you’re right, it will take longer than one afternoon for you to get used to this, and I understand that. Just...love me, and everything else we can deal with,” Crowley said gently, cupping Aziraphale’s jaw with the hand that wasn’t already entwined with Aziraphale’s hand, unwilling to let go. 

Aziraphale surged forward and kissed him, there, in front of the entire crew, in front of God herself. “I love you,” he breathed against warm, thin lips. 

“I love you,” Crowley breathed back, and moved to deepen the kiss sweetly, powerfully.

Distantly, they heard whoops and cheers from the crew that still wandered about the deck, and a small shout of, “Yeah, get it, prisoner!”

At this, Crowley pulled away softly, and proceeded to turn and give the crew his most blood-curdling, terrifying glare, all the more effective without his glasses on, that quickly shut them all up, and Aziraphale heard the quick shuffling of feet as the crew attempted to find cover from Captain Crowley’s wrath. 

He also heard little giggles here and there however, giving Aziraphale the impression that they could never _seriously_ be afraid of their Captain, and when Crowley turned back to face him it was with a wide, well, shit-eating grin.

Aziraphale smiled fondly, and whispered, “I love you.”

When he would tire of saying those words, he’d never know.

“Let’s eat out here, shall we?” Crowley blurted out. “We can watch the rest of the sunset and talk. It’ll...it’ll be like a picnic. We can pretend we’re out at some London park by your home, feeding the ducks. Or would you prefer a fancy restaurant? Your pick, angel,” he chuckled.

“Oh, I do like the idea of a restaurant, maybe the Ritz? The Ritz is quite nice, dear, we’ll have to go someday,” and Crowley’s heart swelled impossibly larger at _someday_. “But tonight maybe a nice seaside affair would do nicely? Some oysters, some wine. All the other guests will get jealous, me walking in with such a vision of a man, being wined and dined. But maybe they’ll just have to deal with it,” Aziraphale imagined and let his eyes dance over Crowley’s lovely features.

“Oh, they’ll be jealous alright, once they get to watch you eat your food, angel. Now _that_ is what they mean by dinner and a show,” Crowley drawled, drawing his mouth tantalizingly closer to Aziraphale’s, as if drawn together by magnetism, destiny, fate. Drawn together the way a compass is drawn to north, the way a traitorous sailor is drawn to the bottom of the sea, the way the sun every morning is drawn up towards bright paradise, and then drawn back down to the deep darkness of the stormy sea.

“I resent that, I eat like a _perfectly_ normal human being, dear. I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean,” he bit back with a teasing smile pulling at his soft, full face.

“Are you kidding?” Crowley pulled back and his eyebrows climbed impossibly high. “You eat like...just….it’s _indecent_ , that’s what it is. That first night we had dinner and I heard the _noises_ , God,” and his eyes went dark all of a sudden, “I thought I must have fallen asleep and crawled into a...very lovely dream.” His eyes searched Aziraphale’s, always careful, watching for reactions in his face. He was bold and reckless, yes, but he was also fearful and paranoid and always thinking ten steps ahead. _If I say something wrong, I’ll apologize, of course. Swear never to do it again. If that’s not enough, I’ll give him some space. If he’s angry with me, I’ll be soft with him, and I’ll give him time. If he decides never to speak to me again, I’ll forgive him for it and take it best I can. If his eyes turn scared, I’ll take two steps back. If his face turns worried, I’ll give him room to breathe. If he changes his mind, if he decides he doesn’t love me, if he wants to go home, I can do that, I can do that, I can do that._

_Tread carefully, Crowley._

_You were built to break things._

_Please don’t break this._

But for all his worrying and fretting (though he’d never call it _fretting_ , he doesn’t _fret_ , thank you very much), Aziraphale only responded in turn, time and time again. Freely, lovingly, wholly and pure.

Holy. Sacred.

Skin met skin, and lips met lips.

After several moments of wet lips sliding languidly, Aziraphale pulled away and breathed, “I believe I was promised dinner?”

“Ah,” Crowley smiled. “Rightly so. Would you care to join me for dinner this evening, angel?” And he held out his bent elbow with a dramatic flourish and a slight bow.

“Oh, that sounds lovely, dear, thank you,” Aziraphale grinned, that full-body, heart-and-soul grin that he had, and Crowley’s heart clenched for the thousandth time today. Aziraphale curled his hand around the offered arm, and let himself be led away.

///

Once they had dragged two chairs, a small table, and some candles out onto the deck, close to the edge of the boat, they went off to grab some plates and food and wine to settle in by the ship’s edge, the sound of waves crashing onto the side a comfortable soundtrack to their quiet dinner. 

“So why is your wine all hidden away in your bedroom dear?” Aziraphale wondered aloud, in the middle of their comfortable silence, eating their simple fish dinner and pretending it was instead a five-course meal in some beautiful, bustling seaside city. 

“Hm?”

“Well, the rum is downstairs, it seems, in the storage rooms. And most everyone on board drinks ale. Or whiskey, sometimes. But I’ve never seen anyone drinking wine except us. And you keep it all in this...this hidden space in your room. Why is that?” Aziraphale watched curiously as Crowley seemed to tinge a light shade of pink, barely visible now that the sun was almost gone from view.

“Oh, um, just...just a good place to store it, really,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale stared expectantly. 

“Well, it’s true,” Crowley defended himself weakly, and then caved. “But also, uh. Well, I. I was kind of hoping that I could...find that amulet, eventually, you know, and once I could go back on...on land I had this idea that I. Well, I mean it’s not something, I know---” He spoke cautiously, afraid for some reason.

“Crowley, it’s alright, dear,” Aziraphale murmured carefully. “You don’t have to tell me, you know.”

“Yeah, no, I know, it’s. Well, I’ve just...never told anyone before. This. I’ve never told anyone this, that is,” he cleared his throat, and fiddled with the fork in his hand. “I have this idea of...having this place, someday, where I could keep my things. Just, just somewhere to go back to, end of the day. I like bein’ on the sea and everything, and honestly I don’t know what I’d put in a house. I don’t...have much in the way of things, you know. But I found this really nice vintage bottle some years ago, yeah? And I thought how nice it was and how I’d like to save it for some special thing. And then I found another one, and another one, over the years. And it just...grew. And now I’ve got, just, so many. I don’t even like wine that much,” he chuckled. “I mean, I guess I do now. And I thought someday when I could be a person again, a real person that could just...have a house and just...walk the beach, you know, that I’d put the bottles in a house, in my house, and I’d drink to my freedom. A special occasion, you know. So that’s. That’s why.” He paused, and Aziraphale said nothing. “I’m sorry, you probably didn’t wanna know all that, I just---”

“Crowley,”

“Hm, yeah?”

“That’s quite a lovely dream.”

“Oh.”

They searched each other’s eyes in the darkness.

“So why are you drinking it with me? Shouldn’t we be...saving it?” Aziraphale said quietly.

“Because you’re so much better than any...than anythin’ like that. This is. This is a special occasion. You’re...special. To me. And you...you like wine. So. Win-win. See.” He trailed off, but didn’t take his eyes off of Aziraphale’s glittering in front of his. 

Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s hand, and squeezed, trying his absolute hardest to convey every feeling that threatened to tear open his skin and come pouring out with no end in sight.

“You offered me wine before you loved me, though. Way back when. We barely knew each other, then, didn’t we?”

“Hmm. No, I don’t think so, angel. I think I loved you then, also. I think I loved you from the beginning, I just...I just didn’t know why yet. And now I do, you know? Because you’re... you.”

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat and he swallowed thickly. He could barely see Crowley across the table, candles resting unlit between them. Crowley’s eyes glittered a dark, glinting shade of that striking yellow, and Aziraphale could swear he could see the reflection of the stars there. Maybe not a reflection. An echo. Like the stars lived there, in Crowley’s mind, and only came out to adorn the night skies in a pale imitation of its creator.

“I don’t want to go back to London,” Aziraphale blurted out.

Crowley stopped rubbing little circles into Aziraphale’s hand. “...What?”

“Let’s go find that amulet. Together. I can take you to it, I can. Well, I _think_ I can, if I’m right about Ophiuchus.”

“About....?” Crowley echoed. “I’m confused.”

“I want to stay here with you. And remember, I told you? It seems like so long ago, I’m sure, but from what you’ve told me about the amulet and the legends, if it does exist, and I interpreted the stories correctly, I think you’ve been chasing the wrong stars. We could go. We could try to find it, together,” he spoke excitedly. “If...well, if you’d like that, of course. Or I could just---”

“Angel,” Crowley breathed, and stood halfway from his chair to reach over the table and grab Aziraphale’s face with his hands, and kissed him senseless. “Really?” he said, after he’d kissed him the amount he’d deemed enough ( _knowing it never would be enough_ ).

“Yes, I think I can build some maps for you---”

“You really want to stay? With me?” He spoke with fragility, a whisper of hope, a murmur of _maybe, maybe, maybe_.

“Oh,” Aziraphale whispered. “Yes, dear. I do.”

A little smile grew on Crowley’s face, still a bit disbelieving, but getting used to the feeling, it seems. He sat back down and he lifted a half-empty glass of quite a nice vintage, and said, “A toast, angel.”

“A toast?” Aziraphale lifted his glass as well, though nearly empty now. “A toast to what?”

“To us.”

There was a quiet moment then, that Aziraphale would remember for years, decades on. It was one of those moments that changed everything, that marked a clear Before and After. Aziraphale gazed across the table where Crowley sat wide-legged and comfortable and in love. He wore a thin, fond smile, a ghost of a smile, and his eyes were soft, swimming molten gold. His black shirt reflected what had become moonlight over the hours of dining and conversing about their pasts, their futures, their fears and their dreams. The cloth braided in his hair was coming undone just a bit at the ends, and the hair coiled disorderly all around his head. His long, lean, loving fingers twisted around the fragile glass stem of a wine glass that was obviously unused before Aziraphale had appeared on board. The fingers held the glass steadily, carefully. Crowley’s lips were tinted dark red with the wine they’d been drinking. The stars shone brightly above, so much brighter than Aziraphale had ever seen them in London, and the water was calm and steady, lapping around the ship in a sweet lullaby.

“To us.” Aziraphale echoed, and filed away the moment in an untouchable part of his mind.

Their glasses clinked quietly.

“You know,” Aziraphale started after sharing in a long moment of silence, “you were my first, too.”

Crowley, having turned to watch the way the stars glinted beautiful shimmery patterns on the water, now turned his head slowly to Aziraphale’s with wide eyes. “I thought you said you’d...loved others before? Or--?”

“Well, I believe I said I have never been _free_ to love others before, in public. London is slowly becoming more...amenable, in the dark, quiet corners of the city, but it’s still. Erm, it’s still not really something you want people to know. And it’s absolutely not allowed in the Navy, no. The Royals...are a very controlling group. It was made very clear to us that this behavior was...unacceptable.”

“But...so you’d never? Before...before this?”

“Um, no. No, I guess not. There were some...flings, I guess, but nothing...nothing like that. Not at all, just like...kissing, that’s it really. Nothing like...nothing like that. Nothing like this.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. He’d be embarrassed at his recent inability to produce eloquent speech, if he wasn’t sure that Aziraphale apparently didn’t mind. “Well, you certainly could’ve fooled me.” And he laughed when he could tell, even under the cover of darkness, that Aziraphale was spluttering and tinting a gorgeous fire-red shade. He decided to take pity on his angel and save him from having to respond. “So, why are you in the Navy, then? If you don’t like it.”

“Well, I never I said I didn’t _like_ it,” Aziraphale said, grateful for the change in topic. “I do think they’re a bit...stubborn in their rules, and old-fashioned. But I’m like that too, and you like me anyway, right?”

“Always, angel.”

“But they...they saved me from a life on the streets, you know. When I lost my parents, I lost...everything. They were...kind people,” and Crowley couldn’t help but notice the small hitch in Aziraphale’s voice. “And then, all of a sudden, I had no one. Nothing. I was young, and sheltered, and I didn’t understand what was happening when they took my house, and sold my things, and tossed me out when I couldn’t pay for any of it. And then I met this woman, General Michael. She...she told me there was a place with the Royals, that they would take care of me. And they did,” Aziraphale said with a little grateful smile. “As soon as I got enlisted, I got a nice paycheck and I got a little place and I had enough for books, and clothes, and good food. It’s...difficult, sure. But...I owe them. And I believe in the Navy, I do.”

“What is there to believe in?” Crowley questioned, always a bit prickly when talking about the Royals, although now he couldn’t help but feel some smidgeon of gratitude at knowing that, even after everything else he knows they’ve done, that they kept Aziraphale safe. That they got him here. “Their ‘holier-than-thou’ attitudes? They kill people, angel. They attack pirate ships all the time.”

“Well, yes, that’s...not something I agree with. Obviously,” Aziraphale said carefully. “But they’re trying to protect the people of London, they’re trying to keep the laws of the Queen. They’re...they’re _meant_ to be the good guys.”

“Are they? I mean, they told you all pirates are evil killers. They apparently starved you in some degree and at some point, and don’t think we won’t talk about that eventually, angel,” and Aziraphale began fidgeting with his ring again. “Do you even know what the Queen wants anymore? No one’s heard from her in years. Years and years, I reckon.”

“Best not to...speculate.”

They fell back into a silence. 

“If they knew where I was right now,” and Aziraphale laughed wildly.

Crowley couldn’t help but chuckling as well. “Off with his head, then, anything like that?” He teased.

“Oh, no, dear, of course not. I’d be...reprimanded, definitely. But they would never harm me, they’re _good_ , dear, I don’t think you’re listening.”

“Right,” Crowley laughed. “Well, better than my side, I guess. If the other pirates knew where _I_ was..” He chuckled darkly, with an edge Aziraphale didn’t like.

Aziraphale fidgeted, for entirely different reasons. “What...what would they do?”

Crowley kept his gaze out toward the sea, watching the occasional break in the water from a fish skating the surface, or the breeze whipping patterns into the water. “Oh, definitely the plank, angel. If they don’t run me through with a sharp little sword first, just for fun. My lot don’t exactly send rude notes, love.” He finished with a smile and glanced over at Aziraphale, and felt his stomach drop at Aziraphale’s paled, drawn expression. “But---but it’ll be fine, angel. Nothing to worry about. I mean, that’s...maybe that’s an exaggeration, I’m sure we could talk it out, or...something. It’s fine, angel. Don’t worry.” He babbled uncomfortably, unused to having someone...care.

“They’d destroy you,” Aziraphale whimpered, and turned his gaze back to the ocean. “Because of me.”

“No, but. That will never happen, I promise. I promise you, angel, look at me,” and waited until Aziraphale turned back. “Nothing like that will happen. I wouldn’t leave you, alright? I promise.”

Aziraphale took a deep, trembling breath and nodded, casting his eyes down at the table between them. He attempted a smile, which bravely managed to shake only at the corners. “Thank you, dear. You know, when this...when this is all over, we find that amulet and we get you a proper place and everything, we can. Maybe we could have a picnic, a real picnic, somewhere. Dine at the Ritz.”

Crowley didn’t like the sound of that, if only for the pained expression that came with it. “Don’t look so disappointed, angel,” he tried to tease. It came out flat, and it sounded sad. 

Aziraphale grabbed at Crowley’s hand resting in the middle of the table, and brought the fingers to his lips to press a careful kiss there, just a press of warm, dry lips. He smiled, more confidently this time, and turned his gaze back to the sea, always back to the sea.

They sat for a long while still, watching the stars and silently counting all the ways they were dangerous to each other, and all the ways they loved each other.

As many ways as there were stars. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did anybody else get Tangled vibes from that new dream bit? i mean i thought so, but then i wrote it. anyway.   
> THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVELY SUPPORT i hope you're all doing okay, please keep in mind that i always have my inbox open on tunglr if anybody's feeling down or restless, or if you would like to talk! it means so so much that you're here. genuinely. i've said a thousand times, and i'll say it again. i love each and every one of you. thank you thank you thank you. much love xxx


	23. choose your weapons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you think i would write a pirate fic and not include a sexy sword fighting scene?? c'mon, who do you think i am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my baby never fret none  
> about what my hands and my body done  
> if the lord don't forgive me  
> i'd still have my baby, and my babe would have me.
> 
> when i was kissing on my baby  
> and she put her love down soft and sweet  
> in the lowland plot i was free  
> heaven and hell were words to me.
> 
> ///  
> YES i know, i'm obsessed with hozier, sue me

It had been nearly four days since their dinner, and Crowley had hardly seen Aziraphale since. He’d been hidden away at Crowley’s desk tirelessly working for hours on end, waking up early and muttering about new ideas about some clue he’d thought of, and working until it was so late at night and it had gotten so dark that even the candlelight seemed to be dwarfed in the infinite gravity of a dark night at sea. Crowley had grown used to the image of Aziraphale carefully hunched over piles of haphazardly opened and stacked books, charts and maps held down by random items, sometimes pens, sometimes daggers, and little floating pieces of paper with scrawled notes on them. 

If Crowley hadn’t known better he might’ve thought Aziraphale to be a statue, frozen in place, absorbed completely in his own world.

At first, Crowley had thought it endearing; Aziraphale willing to work so hard on helping him to find his amulet. No one had ever...been there for him. Not like this. 

I mean, the crew, they had his back, he knew. He knew that should any problems arise they’d be there for him in that way. Just like they’ve always been there for their Captain. But it was more a matter of respect, he felt. He held authority over them, no matter how lax the hierarchy on the ship ever was. But they respected him, and listened to him. And most of the people on this crew had escaped rough circumstances and rough lives to get here, and owed Crowley a sort of debt, in a way.

But this, this was new to him. Here was someone who didn’t owe him anything, who had nothing to gain from helping. Someone who had nothing at stake. And yet, here he was. Still. Doing for Crowley what no one has done before, what no one had ever wanted to do before: loving him.

After their dinner three nights ago, Aziraphale had followed Crowley to his bedroom, where Aziraphale had silently begun residing since. It had been such a soft, quiet thing, Aziraphale taking his rightful place beside Crowley’s head at night. Filling the little cracks and crevices of Crowley’s life so seamlessly. He couldn’t help but wonder, over and over and over again, how he’d ever managed before without Aziraphale. Suddenly there was Aziraphale everywhere, all the time. 

There was Aziraphale early when the morning light streamed in and danced on their naked skin in bed, still soft and pliable from their slumber. 

There was Aziraphale when they bathed together, Aziraphale combing tender fingers through red-hot hair, trailing chaste, adoring kisses at the inked ivy plants that crawled up Crowley’s left upper arm, the little skull over his elbow, the pomegranates and pears littering his back, the darkened blackbird’s wing that graced his entire right shoulder blade. There was Aziraphale when they got distracted in the water, when they kissed and touched and moved together until their skin turned pruny, and they had to wash again. 

There was Aziraphale when he watered his tiny tender plants, their first visitor in all their little lives, and Crowley could swear they grew a little greener after Aziraphale had spoken to them---to which Crowley made sure to counteract with some light, terror-inducing scolding afterwards, to make sure they didn’t get too complacent with all this affection (which was, interestingly, the same process his inner dialogue had adopted for his own thoughts. Where Aziraphale provided endless love and affection, Crowley’s mind supplied doubt and panic and anxiety and guilt in the small hours of the night. Sometimes it was the same old record that had been spinning from the beginning. _[He deserves better. You’re wrong to keep him here.]_ Sometimes it was just shame, guilt for his own thoughts, his gluttony, his never ending desire for more. _[You’re selfish. Greedy. Evil, and you know it.]_ And sometimes, it was something his own mind had created, despite Aziraphale’s promises and constant reassurement. _[He doesn’t love you. Not really. Don’t get used to this. He’ll leave eventually. He will. You know he will.]_ )

There was Aziraphale when he commanded his crew, and when he counted inventory, and when they ate dinner and when they drank wine and when they made love slow and sweet, reverently, gently. 

There was Aziraphale always, a warm and constant presence. 

So when Aziraphale had disappeared suddenly, Crowley felt it with a pang that was easily replaced with gratitude and wonder that Aziraphale would be so willing to help Crowley make charts for their new course towards the amulet. 

But Crowley watched as Aziraphale seemed to forget about the world for days, seeming never to tire, never to stop. He forgot to eat, something Crowley might have thought impossible before. He’d slither out of bed too early, and wouldn’t come when Crowley called him to bed at night. Crowley would bring him glasses of wine in the early afternoon, and would find it barely touched by nightfall. He was starting to worry.

By day four, Crowley had had too much.

“Angel,” he called from where he’d been sitting on the bed. “You’ve _got_ to take a break. Don’t your eyes hurt? Your back? You’ve been working too long.”

There was a long pause, and Aziraphale slowly looked up from the throne he’d been sitting in for days. The papers on the desk seemed to have been reproducing at impossible rates, as now the sheets extended to other nearby surfaces and the stacks had grown to precarious heights over the straining wood of Crowley's desk.

“Hmmm. Right, did you say something, dear?” Aziraphale said absentmindedly. And it took a second for his eyes to focus on Crowley’s across the room.

“I said you’re working too hard. It’s not that important, angel, you’ve got to stop. Just for a little, love, c’mon.”

“Of course, it’s important, Crowley,” Aziraphale said defiantly. “It’s for you. And look! I’ve almost got it.” He looked back down at one of the many, many books spread over the desk and pointed at one that had browned, wrinkled pages, like at some point it may have been dropped in water and dried haphazardly. “So I think that the legends you’ve been hearing have been referring to another constellation altogether, in a completely different part of the sky than Hydra, see, and it also has a serpent in it, which coincides with the stories you’ve picked up around the islands, right, but this one it has a----” and Aziraphale’s words were suddenly cut off from his throat with a thick swallow. When he looked up from his books, there was suddenly a very shirtless, very beautiful red-headed man standing between him and his work. “Y-yes, dear?”

Crowley squeezed his body further in between the desk and Aziraphale’s body on the throne, and slowly bent his knees to sit on Aziraphale’s lap, face lining right up to Aziraphale’s shocked, pink one. “Angel,” he said as he settled on Aziraphale’s warm thighs, straddling him with his legs hanging languidly off the throne’s armrests and disappearing behind the chair. “You’ve been working too hard. You’re gonna...I don’t know. Break your brain or something. You need to stop for a bit.” He leaned his head down low to mouth at Aziraphale’s jaw, and whispered in the skin there, “I miss you.”

Aziraphale lifted his hands from where they had been frozen in mid-air from the shock of a body so suddenly on top of his own, and he moved them to Crowley’s hips to rub little soothing circles there. “Oh, I’m sorry, love,” he whispered back, matching Crowley’s needy tone. “I get...carried away sometimes. I’ve got it, I think, I’m so close. And I wanna help you, I wanna do this for you.” He breathed. 

“Then do this for me, hm? Just take a break, you’ve got to be exhausted. You’ve got to eat something, and get some sunlight, and I don’t know, sleep for a regular amount of time. Yes?” Crowley shifted his hips forward, closer to Aziraphale’s own hips, chests almost flush, skin on cloth. Crowley moved his mouth to bite at Aziraphale’s earlobe. “Or we could find other ways to relax, if you like.” He shifted his hips a bit more, and grinned wickedly at the gasp that it pulled from Aziraphale’s lungs. 

“Oh, dear,” he said, breathless already. “Well, I’m...I’m quite sure I could be convinced, I think.” And his own hips shifted upwards, his body more than amenable to the idea, brain still half-convinced that it should keep working. However, the heat very quickly drowned out the rational part of his thoughts, and suddenly Aziraphale couldn’t remember why he’d ever stepped away from Crowley in the first place.

//

When Crowley finally managed to convince Aziraphale to step _away_ from his desk, if only for an afternoon, it was to another glorious sunset, hard, hot rays beating down heavily on the crew members who worked aimlessly on the ship, some mindlessly mopping floors, others drinking their ale and staring off at the hypnotizing waves. It seemed like the entire crew had decided to take advantage of the day, soaking in the warm rays and breathing in the crisp, sea-salt air, slinking in that slow, hot warmth.

“C’mon, angel, doesn’t it feel nice to take a little break and smell the metaphorical roses?” He grinned and pulled on Aziraphale’s hand, dragging him to follow behind him onto the deck. To be fair, it was quite easy to drag him anywhere right now. Aziraphale was always so pliant, afterwards, so trusting.

“Mm. Some roses might be nice, don’t you think? For your plants? Maybe we could get you some seeds next time we stop somewhere,” Aziraphale muttered, mostly to himself, and Crowley felt his cheeks grow a little warm at the thought of it. He could picture it, suddenly, without meaning to. Aziraphale, walking through some little farmer’s market on some little, quaint island with a ridiculous little straw hat on, buying some flowers and some seeds and soil for Crowley. For him. For them.

He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand in his. 

“We can’t eat yet, dinner’s not quite ready,” he started, shaking himself out of the daydream. “And I’d get you a glass, but you’re running on an empty stomach right now, so that’s probably not a good idea---”

“Not even one glass?” Aziraphale pouted dramatically.

“Well, it would take some convincing, I think,” Crowley chuckled darkly, and pulled Aziraphale in by the waist, one hand curling around him possessively. He pressed a dry, gentle kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead and murmured into the skin there, “Anything you want, angel, you know that.”

Aziraphale smiled, something so tender and pure that it damn near broke Crowley’s heart just looking at it. To see that smile everyday; now wouldn’t that be something?

“I’ve got an idea,” said Crowley under his breath. And suddenly his eyes, uncovered in the brightness of the day, began shifting back and forth beside Aziraphale’s head, an idea clearly beginning to form in the back of Crowley’s mind.

“Crowley,” warned Aziraphale. “That’s a dangerous look. I know you, you fiend, what are you planning?”

“Oh,” Crowley breathed. “You’ll like this.”

And that was all the warning Aziraphale got before he was dragged up a set of stairs and onto an elevated part of the ship, where Crowley gripped his hand tighter and spoke at the top of his lungs, suddenly taking on his Captain voice once again. And for some reason, the shift made the blood run a bit more hotly under Aziraphale’s skin, and he made it a point in his mind to revisit that at a later time, and maybe not now, in front of the entire crew. 

“Oi! Crew!” Crowley shouted over the heads of those milling about, who were shaken out of their own dazes to turn their heads interestedly at the spot where Crowley and Aziraphale stood. “I’ve just been thinking what a lovely day this is, don’t you think? And it’s been such a while since we’ve played, I think we ought to show our lovely guest how we pass the time round here, yeah?” Aziraphale looked at Crowley with a deeply confused look, and turned to the crew below them only to see eyes lighting up dangerously, the once calm, aimless bodies now strung tight and poised, ready to move. Aziraphale had only a second to wonder what the hell Crowley was up to when he heard Crowley project in a deep, dark, coiled voice, “Choose your weapons, _pirates_.”

Hands everywhere dropped their mops and brooms where they stood, and suddenly the ship was overrun with people running in all directions frantically. “Crowley?” Aziraphale said, unsure. “What’s happening?” He turned to look beside him once again only to see that Crowley had taken his dark glasses that had hung on the collar of his shirt and placed them back on his face, and he had what could only be described as a wicked, curved grin stretching and contorting his face. Aziraphale could swear, then, that he saw Crowley’s teeth point sharp and dangerous, just for a second, under his sinful lips in the glinting sun.

“Oh, it’s just a bit of fun we play at, angel. It’s a bit of a tournament between the crew, a free-for-all. Any weapons, any fighting style. Winner gets a night off daily duties, or an extra glass of ale or something,” he explained. “It’s harmless, and it’s fun. Plus, I always win.” He said with another mischievous smile.

“Oh, you play too?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh, sure, everyone plays, that’s the fun of it.” he replied. “Oh, but you don't have to, angel, if you don’t want to. Just thought it might be fun for you to see. You could be our guest of honor tonight. The lads rarely get a chance to show off to outsiders. And it’s a little entertainment before dinner, you do like a little show, don’t you?” 

“I do, love,” and Aziraphale leaned to the side a bit to press a warm kiss to Crowley’s shoulder. “And you always win, do you?” he teased.

“Of course. Is that---” and Crowley’s eyebrows rose up his forehead. “Is that _doubt_ I hear in your voice, angel?” He asked incredulously.

“Well...I believe I’ll just have to be convinced of that fact, dear.” Aziraphale laid it on thick, just to watch the effect of the words rise into Crowley’s cheeks, a smile spreading wide on both of their faces at the obvious tease.

“Oh, it’s _on_ , angel. You want a show? I’ll give you a show, then.”

//

Aziraphale was definitely _not_ ready for the show. He’d felt a hot, red flush flood his face when Crowley had brought out his gear from his bedroom, only to place items one by one on his body in front of Aziraphale, on the deck, in front of the whole world. He pulled a holster up under his trousers and high up on his thigh, and tucked a small dagger there to press against his strong, muscled skin. He placed and adjusted a belt around his sharp hip bones and attached a sheath to it that held his long thin sword, and he ran a reverent finger along the sharp end of the blade before placing it into its hold beside his hip. He finally placed one last tiny knife, so small it couldn't have been bigger than Aziraphale’s hand, and tucked it in the folds of his tight black waistcoat that pressed against his ribcage. “Is that allowed?”

“Is what allowed?”

“Having so many weapons. Shouldn’t you just have the one?” Aziraphale asked curiously, wondering if Crowley was intending to cheat, which would hardly be counted as winning in Aziraphale’s books.

“Yeah, it’s totally open, angel. You can have any weapons, as many as you like, and you can do whatever you like with them. You could even just use your hands, if you want. That’s the good part,” Crowley moved his hands around as he talked, gesturing his words with his hands but also moving them around to gently palm at his weapons, making sure they were exactly where they needed to be. He also patted at his pockets, seemingly feeling for something there that Aziraphale couldn’t see. “If you lose, it’s because you had everything at your disposal, and you still lost. It’s as fair as it gets, see?”

Aziraphale nodded, lost in thought, and met Crowley’s eyes to ask, “Isn’t this frightfully dangerous?”

“Uh---” Crowley sounded out the word and let it drag while he thought about it. “Eh, maybe? But we don’t hurt each other on purpose. Against the rules, see. But it does happen occasionally. The point is just do disarm though, or to force the other to yield. It’s all in good fun, angel, I promise.” Aziraphale looked at him carefully, and Crowley could read the thought there, strangely, before Aziraphale had even thought to name it. “I’ll be careful, angel. I promise. I’ll be safe.” And he continued adjusting his gear, casual and gentle in his reassurance.

And Crowley had been right, of course, it all had been quite fun to watch in the end. Aziraphale had been placed on the middle of the deck where he sat on Crowley’s throne, which had been carefully pushed out from the bedroom and into the sunlight, to watch the tournament play out at a frankly dangerous distance from his own body. 

One after another, members of the crew stepped up to fight each other, a sort of bracket beginning to form. Pepper used her broadsword to fight Brian until he yielded, and then Pepper was challenged and bested by Anathema’s quick, clever footwork and long, thin fencing sword. Anathema bested Madame Tracy with her foil as well when she gave it a shot, but it was a sweet and playful tumble they’d had, one of close friends, a sort of motherly-daughterly vibe to the interaction. However, Sergeant Shadwell had then stepped up to take a stubborn stab at Anathema with his own long flat sword which he proudly called “The Doomsday Option”, and managed to beat her lithe movements with his own blunt, forceful ones. It went like this for a while, Crowley content to sit back and watch the show with his angel. He leaned an elbow on the top of the throne Aziraphale sat on, and he leaned into it heavily with a mischievous, devious little smile playing on his face the whole time, body twisting into serpentine, languid shapes.

See, this was the problem.

It started with Crowley’s little show at the beginning of placing his weapons on his body mindlessly, one by one. And then it was the sight of the throne being dragged out from the bedroom, and Aziraphale’s mind had helplessly recalled the events of just an hour ago, where Crowley had sat on Aziraphale’s lap, where Aziraphale had pushed up desperately, skin on skin now, running his hands around Crowley’s naked thighs, the muscles shifting in his waist as he slid his body up and down on top of Aziraphale, where Aziraphale had moaned and bucked and groaned until they'd both been sweaty and satisfied and exhausted. 

And then, _and then._ And then Crowley had retrieved a small string of cloth before the battles began, the same ones that Aziraphale used to braid into his hair, and he tied his hair up into a tight bun at the crown of his head, and little waves of hair had escaped their binds to frame his long, angled jaw and they glinted and shone in the slowly dimming daylight. He’d pushed his sleeves up, and Aziraphale could see the muscles that jumped in his forearms, the strength they hid underneath. He wore strapped black boots that almost reached his knee, and Crowley looked absolutely, positively, _sinful._

There was the problem.

That no matter how entertaining this was, how lovely the show, Aziraphale could only see one thing, and it was this glowing, aching, painfully gorgeous man that loved him, loved _him_ , somehow. 

Aziraphale tried once again to get his mind out of the gutter, and back on the game. Eventually, only Adam remained in the middle, triumphant over the rest, sweaty and panting but proud and glowing with success. “Alright, old man,” he shouted across the crowd to Crowley, “Your turn.”

“Old man?” Crowley laughed brightly, and pulled his sword out from its sheath beside him, a sharp, high sound escaping from it as it dragged along the leather, just a bit. “This old man is the undisputed champion as of yet, Adam. You think that’s changed?” He waited for Adam to strike first and maneuvered out of the way easily. “C’mon, Adam. You can do better than that. Let’s give them a show, shall we?” He stage-whispered across the crowd, like the whole thing was an elaborate performance for Aziraphale, which in a way, he guessed it was.

They both grinned at the same time, and Aziraphale could have sworn he saw the exact same expression and smile echoed on each face, Adam’s a young and reckless reflection of Crowley’s older, darker one.

Aziraphale watched with rapture as the swords flitted through the air, Crowley’s curved thin one weaving through the air at Adam, who used his smaller body to jump back and forth in defense, just barely avoiding several stabs and scrapes from Crowley’s blade. There were a couple of close calls on Crowley’s end, too, and Aziraphale couldn’t help the little pained gasps that escaped his mouth every time the stabs came a little too close to Crowley’s skin for comfort. 

And every single time, Crowley shot a careful quick glance at Aziraphale, checking to make sure he was still okay with this, that he wasn’t too worried or panicked. Aziraphale didn’t know it, but Crowley would have stopped it all in a second if he’d seen Aziraphale’s breath quicken even a fraction, if he’d started to see the haunted look come back into Aziraphale’s eyes, if he’d noticed the slightest tremble under his skin. 

In the end, it was one of these little glances that finally got Adam; Crowley had looked away for just a second to glance at Aziraphale, and Adam had assumed that this meant Crowley wasn’t paying attention, which was his final mistake. He stabbed with a little extra force right at Crowley’s ribcage, which Crowley caught just out of the corner of his eye, and managed to twist around it completely and, following the momentum of Adam’s thrust, gently placed the tip of his blade right against Adam’s back, and just like that, it was over.

The crew exploded into raucous applause and cheering, and Adam, though at first huffed, child-like, laughed and pulled Crowley into a half-hug. They looked strangely domestic at that moment, all of them. A huge, mashed-up, motley crue of a family that cared for each other deeply. Aziraphale’s heart warmed with a deep well of gratitude at the sight, that these people had loved Crowley long before he had arrived, and would continue to do so long after today. They kept him safe, this whole time. They kept him whole, until Aziraphale had had a chance to catch up. 

“Hey!” shouted Pepper over the noise. “Cap didn’t really win, though, did he?” And at that, the entire crew fell silent. “He hasn’t beat everyone on the ship.”

Every single person on the deck stopped moving completely, and the ship grew so suddenly quiet that you could have heard a pin drop from across the ocean. They all turned their heads to Aziraphale, whose eyes widened at the sudden attention.

“Yeah, prisoner hasn’t gone yet,” added Adam petulantly, and Crowley gave him a scolding side-glance. Crowley turned to look at Aziraphale and said, “Aziraphale, you’re alright, you don’t have to, love. Adam is just a sore loser,” and he jabbed his sword playfully in Adam’s direction, who to his devious glee, jumped slightly in surprise.

“Well, I…” Aziraphale gave it a quick thought. He could feel all the eyes on him, searching his face. They all held their breaths. “I mean, what’s the harm, right?”

The entire crew cheered, and Aziraphale stood up a little unsteadily, suddenly nervous at having so many people watching his every move. He walked up to the middle of the circle, and took his place in the unofficial fighting ring. 

Crowley took two big strides forward, right into Aziraphale’s space and grabbed his elbow gently with the hand that wasn’t holding his sword to create a tiny, makeshift space for them both, intimate and separate from all the chaos around them. “Hey, are you sure about this? You really don’t need to, angel, really. I’ll call the whole thing off,” he soothed quietly, rubbing his thumb back and forth on Aziraphale’s arm. 

And that was what convinced him, in the end. The knowledge that Crowley was giving him an out, that Crowley was watching out for him always, always. That Crowley would keep him safe. “Yes, my dear, it’s alright,” he murmured back over the noise of the crew bustling with excitement. “Should be fun, don’t you think?”

Crowley smiled again, that sweet, playful smile, and he stepped back to his own spot, stepping back into his fighting stance. “Choose your weapon,” he boomed into the circle, and winked obscenely, “ _Angel_.”

Aziraphale laughed quietly and looked around at the crowd, searching for one sword in particular. “Ah, Wensleydale, dear,” and he walked up in his general direction, where the crowd parted to allow Aziraphale access to the young man. “Would you mind terribly if I borrowed your sword for a bit?” Wensleydale just widened his eyes and handed it over, a long, broad thing that, just as Aziraphale had guessed, was just about the right length and weight for his body, which meant it was terribly mismatched for Wensleydale, a thinner, shorter man than he. No wonder he hadn’t done so well when his turn had come around. He’d make sure to mention this to him later.

He twisted the sword around a bit, testing the weight and feel in his arm, and lifted his head back up to say kindly, “Ah, that should do nicely. Thank you, dear.” He swung the sword back and forth, and sidled up close to Crowley, just crossing the line of personal space, with an air that was too intimate for anybody but a pair of lovers. 

“Crowley, dear,” he said softly, the entire ship quiet and watching, silent enough that Aziraphale could have whispered if he’d wanted to and they’d all have heard it anyway, clear as a bell. 

“Yes?”

“Do you still carry around the dagger I gave you?”

“Y-yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

Aziraphale eyed Crowley’s body carefully, and decided that if he was carrying it, it could only be in one other place, apart from his currently occupied usual hiding spots. Which also made sense, given his earlier observation of Crowley’s body-check for weapons. He walked forward, one small step, and his face was mere inches from Crowley’s, chests nearly touching, shirts brushing with every deep breath. He stretched a hand down and, without breaking eye contact with Crowley, reached his hand deep into Crowley’s trouser pocket and felt for the long dagger that sat at the bottom. He pulled it out ever so slowly from his deep, thin pockets and he could see the sharp swallow that Crowley took at the intensity of the moment. “Thank you, my love,” he whispered, and placed a kiss on Crowley’s cheek only to pull back quickly and take his position in the circle, ready to fight.

Crowley looked distracted, skin tinged dark red and panting, even though they hadn’t started moving yet. The effect Aziraphale had on Crowley was...intoxicating.

He held the white marbled dagger in his left hand and twisted it confidently. Now, this one he was familiar with, a comfortable weight he had carried and practiced with for years. He tossed it up in the air swiftly, suddenly drunk on the power he held in his hands, slowly settling back onto his old techniques, his fighting strategies. It has been so long since he’s properly fought someone; but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been practicing, just in case. One can never be too careful.

“Your move, _Captain_ ,” Azirpahale said darkly, and the color on Crowley’s sharp cheekbones only darkened further at the title. He gave his whole body a good shake, seeming to attempt to wipe away the flush, and returned to his fighting stance, complete with furrowed brows and a thin, serious grimace.

He started quickly, briskly, too forceful a start for his usual style, likely a direct effect of his nervousness, at fighting the competing emotions of desire to win and a desire to drag him back to their room, of a fond, deep, burning, aching love and of admiration and pride and surprise. He never was quite good at keeping his emotions in check.

He took a quick stab forward, to which Aziraphale, to everyone’s shock, used _both_ his sword and his dagger to parry it. Where Crowley’s sword had pushed forward, Aziraphale had crossed his small white dagger with his long sword and pushed upward, knocking the sword off its trajectory.

Everyone stopped for a second at the move, including Crowley, and if he thought he couldn’t possibly love Aziraphale any more than he already did, well. 

Crowley did love to be proven wrong sometimes.

“Two weapons at once, huh, angel? Definitely didn’t see that one coming.”

“Yes, well, you forget. I was a soldier, dear, once upon a time,” and something a little dark shone in Aziraphale’s eyes, that thing Crowley had seen a long time ago, that little smolder of burning coal in the back of his bright, crisp, sunny-day eyes, a hint of darkness, a shade of danger, lurking just below the surface, hidden away but always present. 

And, oh, he loved it.

But it was quite distracting. Every quick shift of Crowley’s blade, and Aziraphale was right there in a heartbeat, knocking it away with the dagger in his left hand and following it quickly with a stab from the sword in his right, and using both in tandem when he needed a little extra strength for a block.

And finally, finally, after a few minutes of back and forth, of close calls and playful, teasing smiles, Aziraphale had stabbed with his right arm, followed through with his left, and twisted around Crowley quickly to kick at the space behind his knee, sending Crowley on the floor, kneeling on one leg, panting and sweaty, glasses halfway down his face. His bun had come undone, red waves flowing freely down his back, and a drop of sweat beaded and dripped down his forehead. Aziraphale circled him the rest of the way and stood in front of his kneeling body, and pressed the tip of his blade under Crowley’s jaw. He lifted Crowley’s jaw carefully, reverently. “Do you yield, fiend?”

Crowley's face broke out into a face-splitting grin, and his eyes were dark and blown. “I yield,” he said gently. The crowd erupted into cheers and whoops, overjoyed and astonished that their captain had been beaten, by a Royal, no less.

But Aziraphale looked at the face of the man below him, and he knew what Crowley had meant to say. It wasn’t a yielding of the fight, it was a yielding of the soul, a surrender so deep and whole that Aziraphale could only reply, “I love you, too.” He leaned down to cradle his jaw and place a lingering, chaste kiss on his lips, bringing him up slowly to his feet. And when Aziraphale tried to pull away, for decency’s sake, Crowley pulled him in closer with a hand to the waist, the kiss turning deep and searing. 

“The prisoner is our Captain now!” Brian shouted jokingly over the noise, to which Aziraphale laughed incredulously and looked around for the source of the yell. “Long live Captain Aziraphale!” someone else shouted, and the crew erupted into ill-timed echoes of the shout. Crowley closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s, and he thanked someone for this, for all of this.

_This is it for me, angel._

_You’re it._

_My happy ending._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first, I absolutely MUST thank @izabella95 for this chapter IMMENSELY, i was really stuck on this chapter for some reason and my mind just did NOT wanna cooperate, no clue why.....and then comes my knight in shining armor with ideas and plots and transitions and DANG son she delivered!!!!!!! man seriously, thank you so much for this chapter, basically the only thing i did here was write the words but you had so much to do with this and i am eternally grateful. thank you, thank you, thank you. also thanks for sending me memes when i'm stuck and for keeping me sane, sis. <3 
> 
> ALSO THANK YOU all soooooo much, i'm not entirely sure why exactly but the hits for this fic have gone WAY up and i couldn't be more amazed and grateful for each and every one of you, my goodness i am not woRTHY!!!!! THANK YOU!!!!
> 
> finally, may i suggest a very sexy thing? i learned about double-sword fighting years ago and i literally never forgot about it. there is such a thing as using a small dagger as a blocking mechanism (what zira does here) and then there's twin swords, of which both techniques are.....oof. google it, imagine our zira doing that and being a little badass mf, and you're welcome. that is all. come bug me in the comments & on tumblr :)


	24. it's okay, i'm here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aziraphale sees some old, familiar faces, and...things do not go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh y'all are gonna hate me hate me 
> 
> ////
> 
> "i'm crazy for trying,  
> i'm crazy for crying,  
> and i'm crazy for loving you."

“Angel, I’m real sorry,” he started apologetically. “I literally have no idea what you’re trying to say to me.”

There was a small exasperated pause. “Alright, maybe we should bring Anathema in, she’s the one that usually charts for you, is that right?”

“Yeah, her and Madame Tracy sometimes,” Crowley answered.

“Alright, let’s get them in here,” Aziraphale looked up at Crowley’s face beside his, angled jaw pointed down at the maps spread over the table. The entire side of his body was pressed to Aziraphale’s, Crowley’s shoulder bumping into his own, one sharp hipbone pressing into Aziraphale’s soft one, arms brushing against each other’s with every movement. Aziraphale could see every little scratch and scar on Crowley’s face from here, every freckle that remained almost completely hidden except when he was fighting a deep blush. The skin stretched deliciously across a razor-blade cheekbone, and his eyes were uncovered now, as they usually were these days around Aziraphale. They seemed a soft pale mustard tone today, shifting back and forth across the sheets of parchment before him. 

Seeming to sense Aziraphale’s scrutinizing gaze, he looked up and twisted his head to the side to see a gorgeous, pale face just an inch or two from his own. Crowley let a tiny, thin smile crawl on his face (as if he had any control over that sort of thing anymore) and just muttered quietly, “Focus, angel.” And at the responding chuckle, an even quieter, “Yeah, yeah, I love you, too,” which earned Crowley a quick, sloppy kiss to the side of his neck.

“Okay, but seriously, so you’re sure?” asked Crowley after glowering at the papers below him for a bit longer.

“Yes, dear, look,” Aziraphale started. “You’ve been looking for constellations that resemble a snake or serpent of some kind, yes?”

“Nn-yeah.”

“Right. So Hydra, the one you’ve been chasing, is a serpent. But there’s nothing there, right?”

“...Right, yes,” Crowley answered cautiously.

“Right, so there’s this _other_ serpent constellation, less well-known but quite important---well, actually, did you know that this particular constellation was discovered by Ptolemy at the same time as the other zodiac star groups? It’s considered the 13th sign, but for _some_ reason---”

“Angel.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat primly. “Right...apologies, dear.” He cleared it again quietly. “So, Ophiuchus _is_ a serpent constellation technically, but in Latin the entire constellation is called “The Serpent Bearer”. The stars have a snake in them, but there is also a man who has taken a hold of it, a man who has tamed the serpent, see? So I think if you’re looking for an amulet to, well, to tame the snake I guess one could say, then you’d want to find the Serpent Bearer, which would be Ophiuchus. See?”

Crowley stared at the maps below him. “I mean, yeah, that sounds...right. But it’s…?”

“Exactly. Which is why I need Anathema. I think we can figure something out in terms of a bearing. Once we can nail the direction, the speed, the distance...it’ll just be a matter of time. I, well, I think. I hope,” Aziraphale stammered, suddenly unsure of it all; what if it wasn’t there? What if all the legends were just rumors, imaginary stories passed down to gullible children over time? What if---

“And then I can be a person again,” Crowley said longingly, sadly. Aziraphale’s heart clenched hard at the sound.

He reached a hand slowly to intertwine with the cold, skinny one on the table. “It’ll be so lovely, you’ll see,” he soothed quietly. “Oh, I’ll take you everywhere, so many foods you haven’t tried yet, so many places you haven’t seen! We can go to bookshops, and gardens, and the Ritz, oh! We’ll go to the Ritz and---” He looked up to find Crowley staring at the side of his face, silently watching Aziraphale’s mouth move, watched the way it went from a wide, excited, toothy grin and into a tight, thin line, and then suddenly a deep frown. “I mean, if you want---or, right, we’ll go our separate ways, of course, I---”

“Angel,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale took a big breath. He felt something tight build up unexpectedly in his throat, suddenly fearful and worried all over again, maybe he’s misunderstood, of _course_ Crowley had his own plans after this, after _Aziraphale_ , he wasn’t---

“Aziraphale, look at me.” He looked up into pale, yellow eyes that seemed to pierce straight into him and hold him in place. He waited as patiently as he could, nerves rushing through his blood, his mind racing, his throat closing. He waited. 

“I don’t want to do _anything_ if it’s not with you.” He paused. “Understood?”

Aziraphale’s eyes glistened and for some reason the knot in his throat only closed tighter, and he let out a harsh sigh into the space into the thick air between their faces, mouths much too far away for Aziraphale’s comfort. It seemed that Crowley had the same thought, as he leaned forward just enough for their lips to brush, and he waited, testing the waters like he was calming a nervous animal, asking for gentle permission.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and sighed, and pressed his lips ever so softly to Crowley’s. It was a chaste and velvet soft thing, just a reassurance, a thing that couldn’t be spoken between them but that they felt all the same. Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand in his own. It felt like an _It’s okay_ , like an _I’m here_ , like an _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

When Aziraphale pulled away, it was out of the necessity to breathe, and not desire. He never wanted to have to stop kissing Crowley ever again. And when he looked into Crowley’s eyes again, he saw the same feelings pouring out, the same ache being soothed, the same cracks slowly being filled. 

Aziraphale remembered when he would look at Crowley, once upon a time, so long ago now, and he would see nothing but himself, his own reflection in those damned glasses, see his own face hurt and confused and desperate, and now he wondered if that whole time, Crowley had been hiding that same look behind those dark black shields.

Aziraphale felt another sharp pang in the space under his ribs at the thought that maybe Crowley had been just as heartbroken this whole time, and Aziraphale hadn’t been there for him, hadn’t soothed him, hadn’t held his hand and kissed the hurt away. Had pushed him away, and lied to him, and hurt him.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Crowley murmured quietly.

“Hm?” Aziraphale snapped out of his daze, and his eyes focused back on Crowley’s face, still so close to his, watching him intently in that unblinking way that only snakes had. “Do what?”

“Don’t know. You were thinking something and your face went sad,” Crowley said simply. “Whatever you were thinking, don’t do that. Be here with me.” And as Crowley made his statement, he stepped closer towards Aziraphale’s body, and rested his forehead on the shoulder there. He wrapped both arms around Aziraphale’s waist and clasped his hands at the small of his back and cradled him tightly, rocking them back and forth. Soft, and sweet, and warm.

For a minute, it was just that. It was just holding, and being held. It was Aziraphale’s heart feeling ready to burst, it was a bright giddiness and a careful cautiousness and a calm floatiness all at once, so much love just bouncing back and forth between their pressed chests. 

But after that minute, there came a knock at the door, a quick rap, and Aziraphale jumped lightly, opening his eyes blearily, not having noticed that they had closed in the first place. Crowley just held him tighter and made quiet shushing noises against his shoulder, trying to make the moment last just a little longer, just a second more.

Which unfortunately only did last one second more, as Anathema pushed open the door, sending a burst of air across the room, fluttering the sheets of paper still laying over the table, two maps slowly floating down onto the hard, wooden floor. 

“Cap,” Anathema said on a breath, and Aziraphale could see from where he was standing that she looked...worried. Something that Aziraphale couldn’t remember ever having seen on Anathema’s face, in all this time. Aziraphale tensed on instinct, copying Anathema’s obvious concern, knowing, even without knowing, that whatever it was, this was serious.

Crowley, however, had his back to Anathema still and pressed a slow, languid kiss to the space between Aziraphale’s shoulder and his neck before sighing and stepping back reluctantly.

“Yes, Anathema,” he said patiently.

“Cap, there’s a ship approaching. A Royal ship,” she said, a curious edge to her voice that made the hairs on Aziraphale’s arms stand up immediately.

Crowley turned slowly, brows furrowed deeply, frown on his face. “Royals?”

“Yeah, but...I mean, like the Big Guns.”

Crowley stopped disbelievingly. “The Royals-Royals? The Big Guns?”

Aziraphale looked between them with confusion, but could make out enough to understand that this wasn’t just some freight ship off-course, some fishing boat they’ve crossed paths with.

“ _Yes_ , the Big Guns, could you please just come out and see? I don’t think they’re off-course, they look like they're headed right towards us,” Anathema said exasperatedly, already turning around to leave the room and rush back out to the deck. Crowley, in turn, looked like things were finally starting to process in his head, and he gave a concerned, confused look back at the Angel. Aziraphale could feel his eyes wide and scared, and Crowley reached a hand between them to hold Aziraphale’s, and silently lead him out behind Anathema.

Once they reached the deck, the problem was obvious. Just in front of them, sails floating just over the horizon, was barreling a shiny, white ship much bigger than theirs. 

The S. S. Mary, love of Crowley’s life (before Aziraphale, of course), was a large ship itself, definitely. It gleamed with black paint and the dark wooden floors matched the pitch black sails that fluttered elegantly over it. Most of the other pirate ships were old and could barely even be called ships, they were so badly cared for. The sails were torn and shredded, the wood was worn and waterlogged, and they were small, stolen things. The S. S. Mary had a reputation to keep, and it did it quite nicely. 

However, this _particular_ ship headed straight for them was definitely not a pirate ship. It was a Royal ship. And it was significantly more grand. Impossibly bright, white sails waved proudly in the sea breeze atop infinite columns of a light, almost white wood. It wasn’t actually that much larger than the S. S. Mary, upon closer inspection, but it felt enormous, slowly creeping its way up from the horizon and looming forward, right towards them. The entire thing just absolutely screamed of a condescending aura, an irritating righteousness, an overall sterility.

Crowley hated it.

He rolled his eyes disinterestedly, and squeezed Aziraphale’s hand still in his before reluctantly letting it go. He took a couple long strides into the middle of the deck where people had already begun to stare in alarm, looking to Crowley for direction. 

And he gave it. 

“ _Battle stations,_ now!” His voice boomed across the entire ship, and the entire crew immediately mobilized to rush across the ship, running into rooms and reaching into random boxes and chests on deck to pull out various weapons, swords, cannon balls.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, unaware that Crowley had stepped away some time ago. He stared in disbelief at the quickly approaching ship, recognizing the crisp-white sails with a heavy pit at the bottom of his stomach. He peeled his eyes away from the approaching ship to glance around, and barrelled his way forward to find Crowley, gripping him by the shoulder to spin him around. Crowley had already put his glasses back onto his face, and his hair fell beautifully around his face. One braid framed his left temple, a simple white string of cloth braided into it by Aziraphale himself. It was tucked back behind Crowley’s ear, showing off the brightly inked snake tattoo that lived beside that blessed cheekbone. He looked menacing and dangerous, and also absolutely striking. 

“Angel, what is it?”

“I know that ship,” he breathed out, turning his eyes back towards the boat slowly crawling closer. “That’s the General, that’s General Michael, I know her; she’s the one that recruited me---I know her, she---”

“Angel, it’s fine, we can handle this. Wait inside.” Crowley said sharply, face turning more serious at the name. 

“General Michael, she’s notoriously brutal about pirates, she--she’s the one that recruited me and she _knows_ me,” Aziraphale babbled uncontrollably, panic rising quickly in his chest, stealing his breath completely, leaving behind stuttering pants and a growing tremble in his wringing hands. 

“Yeah, I remember. You told me about her, Aziraphale. I know. It’s okay, look whatever happens, it’s okay. I promise,” he soothed, always soothing, always calming, always careful and gentle, always there, always there, always there. “Do you think they’re here for...for you?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale murmured, genuinely unsure. “Why would a Royal ship, a _General_ , be so off-course? There’s no reason that ship should be all the way out here, there’s just no way. But why would they be here for me, how do they even know where I would be?” Aziraphale had calmed a bit at Crowley’s words, only for his panting to suddenly increase twofold, breath coming sharply now, his eyes wide and panicked. “Crowley, I swear, I _swear_ , I don’t know anything about this, I---this isn’t me, I don’t know what’s happening, I _wouldn't----_ ”

“Angel, angel,” Crowley interrupted quickly. “I know. I know. This isn’t your fault, okay? I believe you. Just stay with me, no matter what, okay?”

Aziraphale’s eyes skittered over Crowley’s face, and was, for the thousandth time, grateful for Crowley’s patience, for his nerves of steel. At least for Aziraphale’s sake. “Alright. Yes,” he said, breath leaving his lungs in one big rush. “Thank you, Crowley.”

“I love you, Aziraphale. It’s gonna be okay.” And he pressed a tight, quick kiss to his forehead.

“Y-yes. You’re right, of course,” and he took another breath, “I love you, too.”

And still, the boat crawled forward.

Except now, the boat wasn’t crawling anymore, it was tearing through the waves, approaching at an alarming rate. The crew members on the smaller black ship stood lined along the edges of the ship, knees bent and ready to pounce, sweat beading on their foreheads, swords poised and drawn back, at the ready. 

The boat came much sooner than they’d thought it would, and before any of them knew it, the ship had come to an abrupt stop, likely aided by several, expensive silver anchors, just beside the S. S. Mary. Aziraphale could feel the collective bated breath, the anticipation, the question that sat in all their minds, both hoping for and dreading the answer.

Aziraphale stood a step or two behind Crowley, and wrung his hands nervously over his belly, twisting his golden band.

The crew waited.

From the other ship, a figure slowly approached the edge, and Aziraphale quickly recognized the telltale uniform of the General, crisp and pressed, the mousy brown hair twisted at the top of her head, the tight smile gracing her face, formal and impersonal. 

She spoke. 

“Hello!” She began in a sickly honeysuckle voice, somehow carrying across the long distance easily. “Might we come aboard?”

Crowley chuckled, and shouted back, “No!” Some crew members chuckled. 

“I only wish to speak, pirate,” Michael’s voice boomed across the water. The way she had spoken that last word, _pirate_ , had sounded like an insult, like a bad word, like it might stick to her shoe if she wasn’t careful. “We wish to negotiate the return of the navigator Aziraphale, your prisoner.” She paused. “We wish you no harm. Might we come aboard?” She repeated herself, this time without the dripping sweet honey rolling off of it. Now it was forceful and stern, and left no room for negotiation. 

Without waiting for a response, an unseen pair of people on the other ship began extending a thick, long board from one ship onto the other. The board reached its destination in front of Crowley’s feet, and settled across the two ships, connecting them by a narrow walkway that no one dared to approach. 

“Do I have a choice?” Crowley sneered, and rested the sharp point of his sword on the floor next to him, twirling it around idly in its place. 

Even from here, Aziraphale could see the smug sparkle in Michael’s eyes, and the thin plastic smile stretched just a bit wider. As she stood and waited, three other people appeared and began to clamber onto the board one by one, strolling down its length like they were taking a quick walk round the park, nowhere to be, nothing to see. They all carried identical, thin swords in their sheaths. Military grade, and royally issued to be very sharp, very lethal, and very effective. Just behind them, General Michael wordlessly took a step forward and followed after them, striding confidently across the board, the click of her boots echoing over the tense air that surrounded both ships.

Finally, she stepped off the board and came to a stop right in front of Crowley, two of her goons to the sides of her, seemingly circling the Captain, ready to move. The third stood diplomatically at her right shoulder, looming over her in a terrifying manner. 

They all stared at each other carefully, tension thick and palpable in the air. Aziraphale avoided Michael’s gaze but studied the other Royals with her, and recognized them all as fairly high-ranking generals and soldiers. The two that were eyeing Aziraphale like meat were almost certainly General Sandalphon and Captain Uriel. At Michael’s shoulder stood the most menacing of them, the most prim and proper; General Gabriel. His black hair was slicked back perfectly, and his eyes were a deep, tinted blue that looked almost violet in this light.

After several tense moments, Crowley finally spoke up. “Well, can I get you anything? Tea? Biscuits?”

Silence. “Alright, shall we do this in my office, then?” Crowley offered, trying to keep the nervous, terrified energy out of his voice. Royals, he could handle. High-ranking Royal Generals, he could handle. Not ideal, but he could scrape out of it, he’d done it before, kind of. But high-ranking Royal Generals here to take the love of his life away? Now that, he didn’t like. He didn’t see a way out of this one where he could keep Aziraphale and everybody lived, and he didn’t like that. But the longer he stalled, the more time he had to come up with a solution, a Hail Mary. He needed to figure something out.

“No, thank you,” Michael said sweetly, oblivious to the joking sarcasm Crowley’s words had taken. “This will be rather quick.”

Suddenly there was a rough, sharp kick at the back of his left knee and he was knocked onto the floor on his hands and knees, his head just narrowly avoiding banging on the floor, and Crowley could hear the quick shuffling of a hundred boots moving, the Generals, Aziraphale’s, his crew, their crew. Everyone had moved instinctively and then frozen once again. Cold, sharp fingernails scraped against his scalp and nasty fingers yanked his head up from the ground and pulled his body up to a kneeling position, face angled up towards Michael’s. Crowley let out a hiss of sharp pain at the pull and he heard the smallest restrained gasp from Aziraphale’s lips. It was this that distracted him before he realized that the ice cold pain at his throat was not his heart’s reaction to seeing Aziraphale so distraught, but a sharp blade pushing insistently into his Adam’s apple. 

Now that he was looking up, he could see the rest of his crew watching with wide, blank stares, swords out and at the ready, but not striking, not moving. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the soldiers on the Royal’s ship, ready and pointing with guns. In a fight, they’d all die. They could kill Crowley, right this second, and there was nothing anybody could damn well do about it. He looked to Anathema from the corner of his eye, and saw her terrified, eyes wide, face drawn, hand shifting restlessly on the hilt of her fencing sword, held aloft and pointed at the Generals, ready to strike, even if it meant dying a gruesome, bloody death. Newt stood next to her, holding her left hand tightly. Adam was behind them, and hadn’t even bothered to raise his sword. He stared, lips parted, eyes already glistening with loss, with grief. Crowley could see, even from here, even with his shades on, the heartbroken expression that threatened to tear Crowley’s heart apart. He tore his eyes away painfully to see Aziraphale, painful little thing absolutely torn to pieces, unsure, confused, horrified. 

He tried, God he tried, to send the smallest little smile Aziraphale’s way, just a twitch of the corner of his mouth, quick and painless, as an echo of that silent conversation, just minutes ago. An _It’s okay_ , an _I’m here_ , an _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

Michael looked past Crowley’s shoulder at Uriel who held his hair back roughly, other hand at the blade against his throat. Michael nodded, and Uriel lifted the blade only to bring it back down again, aiming to drag straight across his throat. Crowley couldn’t help it, as soon as the blade neared his skin he squirmed in anticipation, and fear rushed through his veins one last time.

“ _WAIT_ , wait,” Aziraphale gasped suddenly, hands reaching blindly out towards Crowley’s neck, stopping the sword just as it was about to make contact with the raised goosebumps on Crowley’s neck. Uriel looked up, disinterestedly at Aziraphale, and then back to Michael.

“What is it, Aziraphale?” Michael said in a bored manner, like she’d been interrupted from some dull menial task that she'd really rather get over with quickly so she could get on to more important things. 

Aziraphale looked between Crowley’s exposed neck, the glint of the silver sword in the sunlight, and Michael and Gabriel’s apathetic faces. He floundered for a second and Crowley squirmed again, trying to send a subtle shake of the head to Aziraphale, asking him not to risk it, not to give himself away. 

“Well, I-I think that’s...hardly necessary, uh, General Michael. You, you see, um,” Aziraphale’s body trembled like a leaf in a thunderstorm, his heartbeat impossibly quick under his ribcage, threatening to jump out. “Well, he’s more than willing to just... _hand_ me over, no problem, no-no violence needed. I mean, we’re Angels, we don’t...there doesn’t need to be...this.” His hands wrung nervously, flitting back and forth before Michael’s bored face and the sword hovering over Crowley’s throat. Uriel yanked on Crowley’s hair just a bit more, to which Crowley’s face reacted helplessly to by wincing in pain. Aziraphale had tangled his own fingers in Crowley’s hair from time to time, to comb his hair in the bath, to run his fingers through the soft strands as Crowley laid his head in his lap and they wasted time together, when they had made love and Aziraphale had needed something to ground him, something to hold, and it had always been such a lovely thing. Now, he was unsure he could ever look at Crowley’s hair the same, another hand twisted in it, Crowley wincing in intense pain, curls being pulled into taut strings. He hated it.

Depending on how this went, he might never get to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair again.

“He’s...he’s kept me safe this whole time, he-he was...kind to a Royal prisoner, of all people, and now he’s more than willing to return me to...to you. Is-Isn’t that right, Cr---Cap-captain?”

Crowley looked disbelievingly at Aziraphale who begged him with pleading eyes, _Please, for the love of God, play along._ “Yes,” Crowley said slowly. “I’ll...I’ll give him back. No problem,” and he flashed a big, mocking grin that Michael seemed to consider for a long moment. She glanced back at Aziraphale, and then back to Crowley. 

“You’ve murdered Royals, kidnapped them into your crew,” and she threw a pointed glance at some of the crew aboard the ship, some averting their gaze, some standing tall and defiant. “Why should we have mercy on the most treacherous and murderous of pirates?”

“Be-because, well,” Aziraphale stumbled out quickly, “because he has a very large following. Oh, this-this isn't even the beginning of his fleet, they...they would start a war, and-and Royals would die. A lot of Royals would die. It-that would be bad, right?” He twisted his gold band hurriedly, painfully.

Michael stood and waited. She turned her head to the side to glance at Gabriel beside her, who simply shrugged. She looked at Crowley and said simply, “Negotiations are over.” She turned around and began her ascent up the plank that connected the ships, and the clack-clack-clack of her boots left behind an eerie tension. 

“Wait, _no---_ ” Crowley muttered after Michael’s retreating back, hand reaching out to stop them somehow, to stop Aziraphale’s departure from his side. 

Suddenly, a thick, grubby hand was gripping Aziraphale’s upper arm tightly and steering, well, dragging, a confused Angel up to the board as well. He fought the hand at his arm uselessly, and whipped his head back, desperation clear in his voice. “Crowley?” He said, looking back only to watch as Uriel lifted their blade from Crowley’s throat and instead dragged it quickly across the hair they still held tight in their grip, slicing off most of it in one, clean swoop. At the same time, Uriel kicked hard at Crowley’s back so he fell face-down on the deck. Aziraphale wriggled in the death-grip he was being held in and wanted, wanted more than anything, to run back, to hold him, to cradle his head in his hands once last time. Uriel dropped the red clump of hair on the floor in front of Crowley’s collapsed body, and walked calmly behind Sandalphon and Gabriel onto the plank and onto the opposite ship.

In seconds, in mere moments, the plank was being pulled back onto the Royal ship, and the anchors were pulled up, and the boat began making ominous creaking noises as it started floating away from the gleaming S. S. Mary. Aziraphale could see the tired, sad faces of Adam, and Pepper, and Sergeant Shadwell, and all the others watching him go, and he wanted to cry, God he wanted to cry so bad, he didn’t even get to say goodbye, he didn’t get to thank them. Oh God, he would never hold Crowley again, he would never cradle his body against his own on linen sheets on a warm bed on a bright, sunny morning at sea. He would never run fingers over ink again, would never get lost in pale yellow eyes, would never feel those lips smiling against his, would never feel his sharp hipbones, would never hear the belly laugh he had when they drank together, would never, would never, would never again.

As he watched the ship slowly recede into the distance, faces becoming unclear, noises getting further away, he saw a lone figure run up to the edge and stand precariously on the railing, seeming to want to jump towards the ship, short copper-red hair flapping wildly in the wind. Even from here, Aziraphale could feel the pain, the panic, the heartbreak.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

Aziraphale was yanked away from the edge of the ship, and shoved into a dark office. Michael’s office, it seemed. It was so clean and pristine, papers filed neatly on the light, wooden desk. Awards and achievements framed and placed delicately on the walls. Aziraphale took all this in, and thought about how different Crowley’s office had been; how homey and comfortable it had felt, and how deeply cold and impersonal this did. He was distracted, and so hardly noticed as he was shoved into a chair facing General Michael’s desk. He did notice, however, as Sandalphon began tying rope around Aziraphale’s wrists, tugging roughly and burning at the delicate skin, and restraining him to the chair tightly. 

Aziraphale looked up at Sandalpon’s face in confusion, and then at Michael, who strolled over to her desk, pulled out her chair, and sat behind it calmly. 

“I-I don’t understand, what is this?” Aziraphale said breathlessly, eyes still glistening with the unshed tears of his grief. He tried to pull at the bindings at his wrists, but they were tied so tightly that his arms only strained uselessly beneath their grip.

“You spent many weeks aboard that ship,” Michael began carefully.

“Y-yes.” Aziraphale wished he could leave, wished he could jump off ship and swim back to Crowley, Crowley who would keep him safe, Crowley who would protect him, would be clever, would know how to get out of this and fix everything.

“We want to know everything those pirates have been up to, what they’re planning, and how to kill them all, once and for all.” She spoke with a terrifying immovability, with that sickly sweet voice still that wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

“And you’re going to tell us everything.”

She smiled her thin, tight smile, and her cheeks looked perfect and pink and round. It was the last thing he noticed before the edges of his vision went blurry, and he heard a distant crack, and a hard punch landed directly onto his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM VERY SORRY i hope you all know i was already yelled at for this chapter before i even wrote it, feel free to continue the yelling in the comments section. i will FIX things i PROMISE lmao  
> thank you all eternally for being here!!!!! i love you all deeply. sorry i didn't post yesterday as i usually post on sundays, but life has been a bit busy recently my apologies!! ill have a new chapter for you again on sunday okay :) LOVE Y'ALL SO MUCH  
> (p.s.!!!!!! the song lyrics i posted at the top are from a song i just discovered, which is from a playlist that was made for another good omens fan fic i'm reading that i'm obSESSED with and y'all should go read it and make the author update soon because i can't stop thinking about it please thank you - [Soho by Lurlur](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23578054) )


	25. what the deuce are you doing?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little angsty, my bad....dealing with the aftermath. crowley is very sad, aziraphale is very sad, sad things happen. but.....???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK very sorry everybody, last week was insane with work and i just couldn't write, but i want you to know i have been feeling guilty every single day since lol. love y'all, hope this makes up for it!!!  
> ///
> 
> i would lie awake,  
> and pray  
> that you don't lie awake  
> for me.

He stood there, teetering on the edge, short red hair whipping wildly in the harsh winds. He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t do anything but feel the big, gaping, aching hole right in the middle of his chest. The place where his heart used to be clenched around the sudden nothingness. His sternum felt like it could cave in. His skin screamed with the need to feel fingernails skating over it gently. His lips craved the feeling of soft, plump lips on his. His lungs burned with the absence of his smell, that clean, crisp, prairie-on-a-Sunday-sunny-morning smell that Aziraphale always carried with him. 

He couldn't move.

Everything hurt.

Everything hurt so much, that eventually it stopped hurting until it was just numb and static, the ache having settled deep within his weary bones.

He blinked, and watched the ship barrel away into the distance just as quickly as it had come. 

He stayed up there, standing on the edge of the railing, until he could no longer see the tips of white sails in the horizon.

He stood there until his fingers ached from the tension of holding onto the ropes that held him aloft, and his fingers were burning from the slide of rope back and forth on his palms. 

He stood there until the sun had set completely, and he looked up, and the stars had begun to shine, barely visible under the still lingering glow of a beautiful sunset. He had moved, at some point, to hug his body around the rope that he’d been clinging to, just swaying precariously dozens of feet over a dark, black, rolling ocean. 

“Cap,” Crowley heard from somewhere below him, soft and probing. He didn’t move, and he didn’t look. It had gotten cold now that the sun had gone down. The breeze had died down, and now only managed to push around strands of shoulder-length hair around to tickle at his neck. The chill made Crowley tremble, just a bit.

Maybe if Aziraphale were here, Crowley would have let him borrow one of his good coats. Wouldn’t want him to get a chill. And he’d’ve looked so good in one of Crowley’s coats. Like Aziraphale was his. Like he was at home. Like Crowley could keep him forever.

“Cap?” The voice continued with trepidation. “Crowley.” Anathema said a bit more forcefully, still cautious, and reached a hand out to touch at his ankle still up on the railing. “It’s getting cold.”

Crowley cleared his throat quietly. “Yeah, I know.”

He could hear Anathema swallow in the still, quiet night. “Would you..maybe come down?” She waited patiently, and Crowley thought somewhere in the back of his mind that he had never heard her voice quite so soft, so unsure. He turned to look at her, and felt shame at the pitying, sad look on her face. He nodded, face twisting into something angry and hurt, and uncharacteristically took the hand that she offered so that he could climb down safely. It was sorely needed, as his muscles had started to cramp and ache from standing there so long. He stumbled a bit on his landing, and Anathema reached out a hand tentatively to steady him. 

“You should eat something, it’s been...it’s been a couple hours,” Anathema said.

Crowley’s eyes were uncovered, and they glistened with hundreds of unshed tears that were too stubborn to roll out. His gaze was unfocused and blank. He seemed to think for a long while, unmoving, slightly held up by Anathema’s gentle touch, when he said simply, “He left me.”

“They took him, Crowley, there wasn’t anything any of us could do. You...you couldn’t have, he---”

“No,” Crowley interrupted. “He could’ve stayed. We could’ve...I would have fought for him. If he’d asked. I would’ve…”

Anathema slowly began to gain some courage back, if only to make sure he wasn't twisting things in his mind already, though it sounded like she may already have been too late. She could hear the angry tremble in Crowley’s voice, and she wondered why it was so easy for him to believe that after everything, after _everything_ , it was still possible that Aziraphale would have just... stopped loving him, just like that. A part of her thought she already knew why. “Crowley. They had a sword to your throat. He saved your life, he had to go.” 

“No, see, because---because I was ready for that. If it...if it had come down to that, and he was the last thing I got to look at before I went, then I was okay with that. And he still...he didn’t choose me.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, all of it suddenly becoming much too real now that it was spoken into the air. Once a thing is spoken, it becomes true. “He chose _them_. He...he left.”

The hand that Anathema hovered over Crowley’s arm to steady him suddenly took hold of him tightly to grab his attention, and she moved him, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “He did not _leave_ you, Crowley. He _saved_ you. They would never have spared your life for anything else except his intervention, don’t you see?” She paused and searched his face wildly, only to see nothing but a blank stare and a pained set deep in the lines of his face. “You’d really just leave us all like that? You’d be so selfish?” 

At that, Crowley blinked slowly, and looked up in confusion to lock eyes with Anathema. She gathered all the courage she had left and barreled on. “You would have died and left us all on our own? Adam? Madame Tracy? Your plants? And yes, I know about the plants, I’ve known you for years, of course I know. You would’ve...you would’ve just left _me_ here? After everything I've done, to protect everyone and run this ship and mop your blood off the deck?” Crowley winced painfully at that, shame starting to etch deep into his features.

“And Aziraphale?” Crowley blinked twice, quickly, heart clenching once again painfully at the sound of the name. “You would have left him to watch you die? To be alone without you, forever? He would’ve hated you for that, you know? Do you think he wanted that for you?”

Crowley finally felt a hot tear skate down his frigid cheekbone. “But...he didn’t choose me. He...I don’t…I don’t think he would have cared, at this point. Not like...not like I would have. He doesn’t…” He let another hot tear fall from his eyes, and another, and another. He squeezed his eyes shut to stop the pain, to stop the ache, to stop the hurt. “He doesn’t love me, not like I….like I do.”

Anathema growled quietly and muttered under breath, something that sounded a bit like _idiota._ “Crowley, if you could do anything for Aziraphale to keep him safe, to know he was alive, even if it meant you could never see him again, isn’t that what you would want for him?" She waited to see some sort of reaction on his face, to let the gears click into place. "He loves you, Crowley. You know that. He didn’t leave you. He didn’t.”

She waited for a long time. Crowley’s face was lined with wet streaks now, cheeks glistening in the now-moonlight bouncing and reflecting off the black waves beneath. The gears turned and turned in his head. She waited.

Finally, he spoke.

“But he’s not here, is he?” He stated quietly, painfully. “And I’ll never see him again.”

Anathema slowly loosened her grip on his arm. She took a deep breath.

“You should eat something,” she repeated, no longer having answers for him, out of reassurances that she knew would be empty at this point. She knew the chances of ever seeing him again were near impossible. They’d never let Aziraphale out of their sight again, or else he’d be killed, or Crowley would be killed. It was simple, really.

Crowley nodded slowly, and quietly walked away from her gentle touch without another word in the opposite direction, only to stop halfway across the deck. Anathema followed his line of sight, curious at the interruption and her eyes landed on a small strand that lay on the floor. It was the same place where Crowley had been held down, hours ago, and where the hair that had been sliced off crudely. The hair had once sat in a pile on the floors, but now had now completely disappeared in the harsh wind.

However, in its place remained one braided strand, cut haphazardly across its length, a white strand still braided into it lovingly. Crowley crouched down slowly to pick it up and stared at it for a second before closing his fist tightly around it and continuing his journey down to the small stairs to the rooms. Anathema watched him go and saw him skip the hallway for the kitchens, instead head straight forward and into his room. She heard the slow creak of his heavy door opening, and a sharp click as he pulled it closed. 

She sighed, and turned back towards the railing. Anathema placed her forearms onto the wooden barrier, and leaned heavily onto it out of exhaustion. She watched the way the stars sparkled brightly, reflecting onto the shifting water below. She remembered what it was like, watching the blade held against Crowley’s throat, ready to slice. The panic, the terror, the utter and complete fear. 

She had met Crowley many years ago, and they had pretended to dislike each other at first. But they eventually learned to admit that it was partly a show. They were never really _friends_ per se (or at least, they would never admit it), but they respected each other very highly. 

She thought of Newt, and wondered how far she would go to keep him safe. 

She’d go to the ends of the earth.

Maybe that’s where Aziraphale had gone. 

////////

Aziraphale sat in a dingy, gray cell. His hands were bound tightly by glistening, silver handcuffs, and everything ached. He could feel a rough pounding in his lower ribcage, aching and pulsing in pain. He had a small cut on his forehead that dripped dramatically down his face and onto his cheeks, which was mostly just annoying because it wouldn’t stop bleeding and he couldn’t reach it with his hands to wipe away at it, so he had to resort to wriggling his shoulder and scraping it roughly across his cheeks in an effort to clear it. His lip had split also, and he could taste the tang of copper in his mouth, a deep, sharp, metal taste in the back of his throat. The skin felt raw and burning. His wrists ached too, mostly from being bound. First, to the chair in Michael’s office, and now, to the floor of a musty, humid room below deck. He was alone.

As he took stock of his injuries, he began to wonder what Crowley was doing just now. Was he having dinner with the crew, celebrating no deaths from such a high-stakes takeover? Was he hugging Adam, happy to see him again, there to comfort him and wash away the pained look in his eyes that Aziraphale would never forget? Was he just sipping wine like they had done a million times together and watching the stars glitter in the night sky? Aziraphale could see the stars from here, from a little window in the cell that faced outward onto the ocean.

He hoped that Crowley would be able to make sense of the maps he’s left behind. He hadn’t even had a chance to explain them properly; what if, because of Aziraphale , they’d never find the amulet, and Crowley would never get his chance to be happy again?

Was he missing Aziraphale out there, somewhere?

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, and heard somewhere in the back of his brain the clink of a well-sharpened sword rising in the air and just almost scraping skin, headed towards a throat framed by fire-red hair. He could swear he could still see the yellow eyes widening minutely in terror. He could see the twitch of Crowley’s mouth into a tiny smile, just for Aziraphale. He could see the hands twisting in Crowley’s scalp, the sickening sound of hair being sliced off, the awful thud of contact between a hard boot and Crowley’s soft, lithe spine. 

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and tighter until he saw stars inside his eyelids, and he threw up whatever little he had left in his stomach. The bile burned sharply in his throat at the thought of watching him die, watching the light leave his eyes, watching the love of his life go limp beneath him.

He gagged.

Instead, he imagined Crowley happy, resting on his throne, feet up on his desk. He imagined him making sense of the maps with Anathema and Madame Tracy. He imagined Crowley with an amulet finally in hand, twisting it happily, disbelievingly, in his bony loving fingers. He imagined Crowley, amulet round his neck, walking the streets of some little marketplace on an island, wandering the streets like a tourist, picking up rocks and playing in the sand like a child. He imagined Crowley in a little house with his plants soaking up the sunlight and stars painted on the ceiling and the smell of crepes floating up through the rooms of Crowley’s home. He imagined him sipping a glass of wine with the windows open, feeling the sea breeze float in and dance around his short, red hair. That’s right, he’d have short hair now. Maybe he would still braid it. Maybe...maybe someone else would braid it for him. 

That one hit Aziraphale like a freight train, straight in his chest. But he continued on.

He imagined Crowley dancing slowly in his living room with someone beautiful and loving and kind held tightly in his arms, against his shoulder, swaying to the music of a gramophone floating in from another room. Someone else should love him, if Aziraphale couldn’t. He deserved that. He did.

He did, he did, he did.

Aziraphale let out a dry sob without meaning to, and found himself unable to catch his breath, breathing in and out uncontrollably, quickly. Someone else would love Crowley.

And it wouldn’t be him.

But he deserved that. 

He did, he did, he did.

When Aziraphale finally came down from it, the panic, he looked around the room like it was new. His head was woozy from the hyperventilation, and he could feel the blood rush inside his fingers, his arms, his veins, rushing cold and sharp under his skin. 

_What the deuce are you doing, locked up in the brigs of a Royal ship?_

_Thought you said they were the good guys._

Aziraphale startled, and looked around quickly, before realizing the voice sounded remarkably like Crowley’s, and came suspiciously from inside his head. 

_So much for that, huh?_

“Yes, well, I...I guess I was wrong,” he said out loud to no one in particular. He heard a drip echo from somewhere across the hall. “I didn’t think they would...they wanted to know about you, did you know?”

The words bounced off the wall drearily. 

“They wanted to know where you were headed. They still want to...to hurt you. But I won’t let that happen---” he rushed out to say, “I would never let that happen. I didn’t say a word. I promise.”

_But they did this to you. They hurt you._

The voice sounded angry, and strangely hurt. 

“It...it could have been worse. After...everything, I think they still would rather keep their hands, er, clean, in a way. Hurting a soldier, even a traitorous one...well, I think the higher-ups might disapprove. I...I can’t say I know anymore, how things work in the Navy...not anymore. I thought I knew, I thought they wouldn’t….” he took a deep breath. “I really thought we were the good guys. I don’t think I know that anymore.”

The silence hung heavy, and it hit something dark and tired in Aziraphale’s bones.

“I miss you, you know.”

He waited for the voice to say something back.

Nothing came.

“God, I miss you.” He cried then. He cried, and he cried, and he cried until the sobs were just a quiet shaking of his body and no tears would come out anymore. He could feel a tremble that came from deep inside his chest and he His body shook until the night had turned so dark and silent outside that Aziraphale could swear he heard a voice whisper mischievously into his ear:

_Then do something about it._

Aziraphale’s head shot up at that, and turned his head around once again to check for a source to the voice, and again finding nothing there but an empty, sterile room. He pulled petulantly at the chains that held him in place, seated on the floor. 

“Well, I sure would love to do that, Crowley, but---” his words died at the name. Even saying it out loud felt too raw, still. He swallowed thickly, and tried again. “I would love to, but I’m stuck, dear. Wish I could just...snap out of it. Any chance you could do that for me, dear? One last favor?”

Silence.

“Right,” Aziraphale muttered. “Guess I’m all out of favors, aren’t I?”

The chains clinked quietly under his shaking fingers.

Snap out of it.

_Snap._

Aziraphale blinked and widened his eyes, lifting his head up quickly to search around the room, knowing he’d seen some crowbar lying around when he’d first been led here hours ago. He glanced around excitedly, and found exactly what he was looking for; a small crowbar sitting in the middle of the floor, haphazardly kicked close enough to the cell that Aziraphale might just be able to reach for it, if he was careful, and very quiet. 

He gasped at the realization, and wriggled his way as close to the edge of the cell as he could, kicking his feet in front of him to stretch beyond the metal bars. He reached them out further and further, toeing just barely at the crowbar just slightly out of reach. 

He took a deep breath.

_C’mon, angel. You’re right there…_

Aziraphale huffed out in satisfaction as he managed to kick his feet out just right and twisted his toes to shift the crowbar closer and closer to the cell until he could stretch his arms to grasp at the metal tool.

“Oh, Crowley, dear, you really are so clever,” Aziraphale cooed happily, and maneuvered the crowbar between the clasps of the handcuffs and pushed as hard as he could until he heard something snap loudly. It took a lot of strength, and careful manipulation, but finally he was free of his binds. He twisted his head around indulgently, and felt his neck pop appreciatively. He rubbed at his wrists soothingly, red and bleeding already from the strain. 

Now, to get out of this cell.

Well, if it ain’t broke.

He wedged the crowbar bluntly against the lock on the cell door, and put his entire weight onto it over and over until on one particularly heavy thrust managed to make something break loudly and clang onto the floor. The door swung open.

“Well, surely someone heard that one, dear...I should get moving, okay, we can do this, darling,” Aziraphale spoke to himself, mostly because it just allowed him to pretend, even for a moment, that Crowley was really guiding him through this, and not the imagined spectre of his lover, miles and miles away. 

“I’ll find you, my love, I will,” Aziraphale whispered. “I’ll come to you. Just wait for me.”

Aziraphale rumbled around the lower decks quickly, certain that even if no one had heard the very loud, obvious clanging, they’d soon be down to check on him anyway, and it would not be a great idea if they were to find him walking around the decks freely. He remembered that Crowley had taught him, long ago, that there were emergency kits and boats and things in nearly every place on board a ship, just in case the worst should happen. And there was always a way out.

He sank to his knees and knocked quietly on each floorboard, listening carefully for a difference in sound, a more hollow echo rather than a blunt thud. When he found it, he wrenched open the floorboard with his crowbar (and yes, he would be taking the crowbar with him as well; who knew these were so handy?) and was delighted to find food packs, a first aid kit and a tiny, tiny raft, tucked away underneath the floorboards, just hardly big enough for one passenger.

Perfect.

He stuck his hand in the hole in the floor blindly, reaching for any extra supplies he could find, when he felt a sharp sting at his fingertips and he yanked them back roughly. He blinked, confused, at the red drops growing on his fingertip, before it clicked.

_There we go, angel._

_Impress me, my love._

Aziraphale reached back in cautiously and pulled out a long, silver sword, military grade. A soldier’s weapon. He held it tightly in this hand and twisted it experimentally in his hands, testing the weight and finding it to be exactly right, the weight familiar in his wrists, the swish of silver making a satisfying hiss as it sliced the air, one that Aziraphale had grown to know better than the sound of his own breath. He stood, and took stock of his new surroundings. He had a boat, and oars, and food, and bandages, and a sword.

He tapped lovingly at the pocket of his pants, and felt there the lovely weight of Crowley’s small compass, still on him, after everything.

He had a compass, and he had a piece of Crowley, and a way to find him. He steeled his mind, and his heart decided for him before his body could even understand the danger he was putting himself in.

“I’m coming, my love,” he whispered. “Wait for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay!!!! it has been a long and winding road BUT we are nearing the end everybody!! we're finally getting off the angst train hopefully soon!!!! love y'all to PIECES you're all my favorite people on earth. <3 thanks for still being here, thank you to all my LOVELY supporters, commenters, kudo-givers, and every single one of my readers. much love!!!!! thanks for sticking it out with me!!!


	26. ineffable, my ass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we're so close to the end i'm sTRESSED. aziraphale needs to find crowley, and crowley needs to grieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh ho hoooooooo  
> ///
> 
> though my soul may set in darkness,  
> it will rise in perfect light;  
> i have loved the stars too fondly  
> to be fearful of the night.

He didn’t get very far.

Aziraphale had managed to take some ripped, discarded sheets he’d found on the floor of his cell and made a makeshift knapsack for the things he’d decided were absolutely essential. Initially, he had planned on taking all of it with him, and quickly realized there was no way in _hell_ he was managing to escape the ship chased by England’s Finest by threat of death while also dragging food, first aid supplies, weapons, and an entire raft behind him. He’d sat a good minute wondering what he’d have to do without, and finally decided all he’d take was food, some water, his crowbar, and his sword. The rest he’d figure out along the way. 

He quietly cursed for the thousandth time the Royal soldier that had apparently alerted the Generals of his presence aboard Crowley’s ship. He could remember clearly the glisten of recognition in the soldier’s eyes that fateful day, weeks ago when Crowley and Aziraphale had decided to attack a Royal ship for supplies, and had gotten more than they bargained for. Apparently, he’d assumed Aziraphale to be in great danger after they’d managed to escape, and although he’d had good intentions, it was this soldier’s fault that the Generals had tracked Aziraphale down in the first place. Aziraphale couldn’t really be mad at him, though. In fact, he was the only soldier that apparently had ever actually really cared about Aziraphale’s well-being in the entirety of his time in the Navy. 

But even Aziraphale had to admit, the man had awful timing. If there really was a reason for everything that happened in the world, crafted by some omnipotent higher being, well. He couldn’t really see it. Ineffability, he supposed.

_Ineffable, my ass._

He still felt a little silly, though, lugging a heavy, clinking sack over his shoulder with one hand, sword carried unconfidently in his other. He was injured and sore, making it all the more difficult to carry his sword, and the weight of the sack, despite being lightened of most of its load, still managed to throw him just enough off-balance that it made him feel unprepared and nervous. He was decidedly _not_ used to that. He knew he was actually quite good with a sword normally, well-practiced and quick-footed; but one wounded, tired, teetering soldier versus 30 well-rested, angry Royals? Not the best odds he’d ever been up against.

But he reminded himself over and over again, _this is for Crowley, this is for Crowley, this is for Crowley. I have to find him. He’s waiting for me._

_For Crowley._

He wondered how far Crowley could possibly have gotten in the amount of time that had passed already; it had only been maybe a half-day, a couple hours of ships drifting in opposite directions.

Meaning he was likely already leagues away.

Aziraphale shook his head to get the thought out of his head. No use getting distracted now. First things first: get off this damn ship.

He checked himself one last time, and surveyed his belongings; sack, compass, sword. Food, water, crowbar. 

_Crowley, Crowley, Crowley._

He could do this. For him. 

He stepped quietly, carefully, to the door of the cells that he’d been placed in: a large, musty room covered impossibly from floor to ceiling in a disgustingly wet layer of permanent dew. He tested the door handle softly, only to find it unlocked.

He pushed the door open.

To his surprise, he found the ensuing hallway empty and dark, realizing suddenly that this would probably be much easier than he’d anticipated, having momentarily forgotten that it was the middle of the night, and the Royals had no reason to believe anything eventful might happen in the night. No one would dare attack the ship, and no one on board would dare disobey any rules. A tightly-run ship meant that they all had their guards down; foolish.

Aziraphale had learned better. Crowley had taught him that. 

Aziraphale stalked down the hallway ever so slowly, peeking into each just-open door, ready for a fight, and only finding a variety of empty rooms or soundly sleeping soldiers. Once upon a time, these people would have made him feel safe, protected. His people, his colleagues. Now, he felt surrounded, mistrusting. Not the enemy, per se, but no longer someone to trust. It wasn’t a nice feeling. It was unsettling to realize the real danger had been right beside you all along.

He’d been so close to the end of the hallway, uninterrupted so far, when he made a mistake.

He stepped just in front of the last door of the hallway, and noticed that it was only slightly ajar. He peeked in curiously as he walked by and took a hard step, directly onto a twisted floorboard that creaked impossibly loud in the quiet, still night. 

The added weight of Aziraphale’s sword and pack made a creaking sound like a resounding whine that bounced off the walls, and immediately he heard the growing noise of 30 bedsheets rumpling and shifting as the soldiers all woke up one by one. 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Aziraphale muttered into the quiet as his eyes locked onto the sudden appearance of beady, angry, dark eyes of one Uriel and twenty other bleary-eyed soldiers peeking out of their doors. 

Uriel was the first to react. “ _Stop him!_ ” 

And in one beat, the entire ship was mobile.

Aziraphale had a bit of an advantage, not carrying the weight of sleep that still dragged on the eyelids of the other soldiers, and he started quickly to the door of the hallway and directly out onto the deck. He hoped to have more time, more of a plan, more of a chance than this; but apparently, adrenaline was a finer wake-up call than anything else, and he found himself suddenly crowded by a sea of now-wide awake army men staring him down viciously with glimmering swords. Oh, this was _not_ good.

The little voice in Aziraphale’s head, though, had reappeared to quietly stifle a giggle in Aziraphale’s brain. 

_They’re in their nightgowns, still. Big, brave, army men they are._

“Crowley, shut _up_ ,” he whispered to himself. “Not the time.”

_C’mon angel. What are you afraid of?_

Aziraphale found himself looking around at the spectacle around him. Where he initially wanted to tremble in fear, to imagine one of those thousand swords plunging through his stomach, to wonder what it would be like to never see Crowley again, he now found himself looking at the soldiers in their fluttering sleepwear, sand still in their eyes, still half-asleep and stumbling over each other to grasp what was happening. He took in the image of General Michael, always so high and mighty, with her hair mussed and loose and frizzy, out of its usual beautiful updo. Gabriel looked scared, purple eyes wide and fluttering, completely unsure of what to do and out of his element. He didn’t even have a weapon on him.

Aziraphale let a crazed laugh escape his mouth, and felt a surge of courage, of confidence, of _Crowley_ , take him over suddenly.

“Well, this is a sight. Good morning, ladies and all,” Aziraphale took a small bow, and attempted to channel some of Crowley’s sarcasm and bravado into his words. “Lovely night tonight, wouldn’t you say?” He said politely.

 _Bastard,_ said the little voice in Aziraphale’s head, a heady pride saturating the one word.

Michael piped up, voice shrill, eyes wild. “What in _Heaven’s_ name are you doing, Aziraphale? Put that sword down, _immediately_.” She was using her commandeering, dominating voice that she used when she needed people to pay attention to her, one that Aziraphale had once been scared of, would make a shiver run down his spine. He realized now, gloriously, that he felt nothing now at the tone. Not fear, or shame, or a need for approval or acceptance or absolutely anything at all. He laughed again.

“I’m escaping, can’t you tell?”

“You can’t,” said Michael uselessly.

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale waved his sword bravely in front of him, and a soldier or two shuffled a step backward.

“We’ll find him, you know,” said Michael. “We’ll find you, too.”

Aziraphale’s blood suddenly ran cold, and all the bravado that coursed in his veins evaporated in one beat. “What does that mean?” He asked carefully.

“It means that no matter what you do, we’ll find you someday, _traitor_. And should we find him again,” Michael straightened up slowly as she spoke, watching the way her words began to shake Aziraphale, enjoying the way his face twisted into one of concern. “We won’t spare him a second time.”

Aziraphale swallowed thickly, and tried not to think of Crowley, bloody, limp, cold. “You’ll never find him.”

Michael hummed, combing a strand of hair out of her face calmly. “We’ll never stop looking for him, menace that he is. And I’ll make sure the Hellions keep an eye on him, too.” Aziraphale scrambled to catch up; Michael was in contact with pirates? How? Why? “Either way, you have nowhere left to go, Aziraphale. You’re a traitor in the eyes of the state. You’re not one of us anymore. You have no family. You have no one. Where will you go?” She smiled cruelly, expecting Aziraphale’s face to crumble even further.

Instead, a little hopeful smile crept onto his face and filled in Aziraphale’s gentle round cheeks. He thought of what awaited him, somewhere out on the sea, something better than he’d ever had, something he realized he’d never truly had until Crowley. He knew exactly where he was going. 

“Home.”

Aziraphale let the small upturn of lips turn into something full-bodied and strong, and he renewed his grip on both his pack of things and his sword. Before anyone could react, he turned around and ran to the edge of the ship, where a tiny emergency wooden boat for one hung from ropes and dangled precariously in the air. He scrambled to climb the railing as the soldiers finally reacted and rushed after him, slowly putting together the pieces of Aziraphale’s plan, hoping to ruin it before it could be put into place. 

Aziraphale launched his body into the dangling boat that swayed and creaked with the sudden weight thrown onto it as soldiers beneath him yanked uselessly at the ropes that held the boat aloft. Aziraphale, now firmly seated in the boat that swayed dangerously over the deep, dark ocean, put down his pack on the floor of the raft to grab his sword with both hands. He looked down once more to his left, where soldiers scattered like ants to pull at ropes and whatever they could get their hands on to reach Aziraphale. Just beyond them stood the Generals, watching disapprovingly of the ongoing commotion, unsure of what to do other than to let Aziraphale go on with his theatrics. Michael looked scandalized, but ultimately defeated. Uriel’s stare felt like daggers, and made his skin crawl. Gabriel just looked tired. 

Aziraphale turned then to his right, and saw nothing but thirty feet of distance between him and crashing, black waves. He immediately knew exactly where he’d rather be. “Here goes nothing, dear,” he muttered to the voice in his head, and strengthened his grip on his sword, only to pull it back and straight across the ropes that held the boat in its place. 

Immediately after the deafening whip of ropes snapping, Aziraphale felt a sinking, breathless feeling take hold of him, and everything began to rush past him impossibly fast. He couldn’t breathe as his body shot downwards, the boat falling just underneath him, straight down into icy, crushing water.

He fell.

///

Crowley paced back and forth in his room. His eyes were focused on his snakeskin, knee-high boots beneath him, walking ten paces forward until they reached a wall, spinning round, and walking him another fifteen paces forward, until he hit another wall. It was the only sound in the room. A clack, clack, clack of steps. A shuffle as he turned. Clack, clack, clack. Outside, he could hear waves crashing softly against the boat’s exterior. 

His mind was wandering, panicking, scrambling. What if...what if it wasn’t here? What if this was all for nothing? What if he...what if he had lost Aziraphale for nothing? His feet absentmindedly had taken him to his throne, and he kicked at one of its legs angrily. He hadn’t sat there in three weeks, not since Aziraphale had...left.

 _Had been taken,_ said a voice in his head that sounded too much like Anathema’s. He blinked his eyes back into focus, and looked at the papers and maps scattered across the desk, darkened through the haze of the black glasses sitting firmly on the bridge of his nose. He stretched a tentative finger out towards the sheets, just barely shy of touching the maps. It was silly, he knew, to leave everything the way Aziraphale had left them. Anathema had been in here since then, and Madame Tracy, and they’d moved things around to decipher through Aziraphale’s scribbled notes and haphazard drawings. They’d figured it all out, thanks to Aziraphale, although it had taken them ages to actually understand Aziraphale’s wild scribblings. In the end, he’d been right; once they’d figured out some technical stuff, the bearings, and the speed and location and such, it was only a matter of time until they’d arrived at the little island. It was actually not too far from London, as it was. Crowley had almost expected to travel far and wide, prepared to roam the earth for it. All this time, and it was less than a few day’s journey. Turns out, if you follow the maps of Ophiuchus and factor in the time of year and season and such, you’d find a little island with a small, quaint town in it. It was rumored by villagers there that an object of reverence and power rested somewhere in the thicks of the jungle, but they dared not seek it for fear of retribution by an age-old god.

Crowley knew better. He knew there’d be no further punishment here, if the rumors were true. Only salvation.

The amulet.

His finger hovered just over the papers on his desk, the notes in Aziraphale’s handwriting still lying there. He refused to touch it, however, even after so long, even after knowing, logically, that he’d never see Aziraphale ever again, and that someday he’d have to clear the papers away, clean the desk, wipe the dust, and shuffle away all the reminders of the one who stole his heart. 

As if he could ever forget.

But until then, he’d keep everything as is. Maybe the smell of him would linger just a bit longer. Maybe his presence could be kept, imagined, for just a bit longer. 

Just a bit.

He went back to pacing.

_They should have been back by now, shouldn't they?_

He startled at the sudden knock on his already open door only to see Adam standing there, breathless, dirt smeared on his face and hair slightly tousled.

“We found it,” Adam said excitedly, wide grin infectious and bright. He held up his hand for Crowley to see worn, brown leather strands carrying a small black amulet, seemingly made of stone, a black wavy snake shape dangling from the strings. It seemed to glimmer and glow a deep wine-red underneath the rock, like a red hot coal still alive and smoldering.

Crowley took three tentative, slow steps forward, and stretched a hand out to take the amulet from Adam, who watched with rapt, wide eyes. He brought it down slowly, and brought his other hand around to cradle it gently, carefully, in his grasp.

“Well?” Adam probed. “Put it on! Do you...do you think it will work?” He asked cautiously.

“I think...it will.” Crowley rubbed his thumb over the little snake, exactly identical to the one that adorned his left temple. He made no move to put it on. “Thank you, Adam.”

In the growing silence, Adam’s face shifted from elated and excited to sad and grieving. 

“It’s not the same anymore, is it?” He said, and Crowley looked up to see eyes that understood exactly why he couldn’t put it on, why he didn’t want this anymore. Why, after a lifetime of seeking something, it suddenly seemed...unimportant. 

It didn’t mean anything if Aziraphale wasn’t there to share it with him.

He looked back down, and his eyes stung sharply. He felt something clutch hard in his chest, a feeling he was very acquainted with now, something he had almost grown to appreciate. A reminder that it had all been real, that Aziraphale had been real, that Crowley had been loved, once. 

Crowley cleared his throat. “We’ll stay docked here for the night. We leave in the morning.”

Adam nodded solemnly, and swung the door closed slowly. Crowley waited until he could no longer hear the thump of boots walking away, and he pulled out the golden throne that Aziraphale had sat in once, the same one he had written these notes in weeks ago, the one he’d sat in when he’d patched up Crowley’s wounds, the one he’d hand-fed soup to him from, the one he had made love to Crowley in once, so long ago now. Crowley sank into it slowly, and let the dam finally break. He choked on one loud sob, and immediately the tears flowed like streams endlessly down his face, streaking his glasses, dripping onto the maps below him. He let the amulet fall and clatter onto the desk, and he watched it as it stopped over one of Aziraphale’s little drawings in the margins of one of the books Crowley had given him. 

He rested his elbows on the desk, over the papers, and he gripped his face in his hands as he sobbed uncontrollably, heaving breaths shaking his whole body. His fingers trembled, and he ran rough fingers and sharp nails through his short, wavy hair. Just another reminder of what he’d lost. Of what he no longer had. 

He sat there, and he cried.

//

When Crowley awoke, it was to loud rapping on the old, wooden door of his bedroom. He picked his head up in alarm, and realized that he’d cried himself to sleep at the desk, still seated in the throne, head cradled in his arms over a thick pillow of book pages and the smell of Aziraphale, just barely clinging to the sheets.

“What,” he yelled, surprised to hear his voice was scratchy and rough from the previous night. 

“Are we, uh---” _Newt_. “Are we, um, leaving the island? Today? Or…?” Crowley could practically hear the way he pushed his thin glasses further up his nose, how he shuffled his feet nervously outside the door. 

Crowley shouted back, “Yes. I’ll...give me a moment and I’ll see the ship off myself.”

“Y-yes. Okay,” Newt said. “Yes.” He said again awkwardly after a moment, and Crowley heard him walk away quickly from the door and back to the deck. 

Crowley sighed, and looked around the room. It was empty, as it always had been. But it had never felt more alone. He stood slowly, and took his time getting ready to leave his bedroom. He washed his face, and brushed his teeth, and fixed his hair. He had bags under his eyes. He picked out a crisp, white, flowy shirt with a plunging neckline that Aziraphale had once said he’d liked on Crowley. He pointedly avoided the space in his dresser that contained the ribbons of cloth that Aziraphale had pored over a long time ago, had daydreamed about braiding each one into Crowley’s hair. Now the strands were longer than the hair on Crowley’s head. And there was no one there to braid them in. He’d likely never touch them again. They would always remind Crowley of him.

Crowley dressed, and after some time gave himself one last look in the mirror. His eyes were lined red with exhaustion and sadness and grief. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his skin looked pale and drawn. He can’t remember the last time he ate enough. He can’t remember when was the last whole day that he hadn't drank himself pleasantly numb. (But he hadn’t touched the wine, of course. Those didn’t belong to him anymore. He’d pour them all out into the ocean, if he could, but he found that he couldn’t. They were Aziraphale’s. And he would never do that to Aziraphale.) He can’t remember when was the last time he even watered his plants. He felt his heart clench a bit at that, and resolved to check up on them tonight. He was heartless, but he wasn’t, well...heartless.

He slid his dark glasses over his nose numbly, and steeled himself for the oncoming stares, the questions among his crew, the resounding _Now what?_

He didn’t know.

He didn’t want to go anywhere.

He didn’t want to do anything. 

He straightened up his shoulders, and put on his bravest face.

_Now what?_

The sun glinted painfully across his glasses as he stepped out onto the deck for the first time in days. He squinted his eyes at the afternoon light, cursing the warmth, cursing the sunlight, cursing the clouds and everything else around him.

As he walked out onto the deck, the entire crew fell silent, and gathered around him on the deck. The boat was anchored far from shore to allow Crowley to remain in his human form, and it now floated and swayed softly in the gentle sea breeze. 

“Pirate people,” he started awkwardly after clearing his throat loudly, “We’ve done it. After all this time...we’ve found it. The amulet.” He took a long pause, unsure of where he was going with this. “Thank you...for helping me. For...for sticking round.” The crew exchanged unsure glances. _A thank you? From Crowley?_ “This is, uh...well, I don’t know. From here. I believe we’ll just, uh, continue causing chaos for the Royals. But...well, I also know that some of you may want to continue on, find another ship, another adventure, another quest, I get it. I get it. So, if...if anyone wishes to...step off here, I understand.” He spoke sadly, quietly. So different from the captain the crew had grown to know, so strange in contrast to the normally angry and wild and smirking man of mischief he had once been. Now, Crowley felt like just a shell of that.

He made an awkward gesture of a small wave, signifying that anyone who would like to leave, could.

He waited.

He stuck his hands in his pockets in frustration when nobody had moved, nobody had even glanced away. He was sure that given the opportunity, they’d all scramble. Why stay?

“Alright, really, now, I---” he had started, bewilderment clear in his voice at the odd, moving display of loyalty, when there was a very faint, distant splashing heard from very far away. They all turned to see, and saw a ship maybe a half-mile away, its whole crew peeking over the edge of it to watch one person flail around in the water underneath.

“Idiot,” Crowley muttered under his breath. “Won’t let me have my moment, will they?”

The entire crew on Crowley’s ship watched as the small blip of a person continued to splash around, strangely away from the ship, and stood in silence, unsure what to do. 

After a long silence of watching, and realizing that no one on the other ship was attempting to retrieve him, Newt piped up quietly. “Should we...should we be helping them?”

Crowley sighed loudly. He looked back at the ship in the distance, and saw no movement. He looked back at the figure in the water. He would drown, at this rate. Where was he even going? “I mean, we probably shouldn’t. Pirates and all. But, you know, who’s really keeping count anymore?” Crowley pulled his hands out of his pockets and strolled to the edge of his own ship, towards the small emergency boat they had hanging there, swaying a bit in the breeze. “I’ll get the poor bastard.” 

“Really?” Anathema said, and walked to the little boat as well. “One of us can go, and you can get the ship ready to lift anchor?”

“Mm-nah. Nah, I’ve got to---” Crowley began. “I’ve got to do some good, I think. To, uh, ease the conscience, I guess.” Anathema blinked at him. “It’s what Aziraphale would’ve done, alright? I just...I’ll go. Who knows, maybe he’ll be a nice addition to the ranks, I’ll give him a good scare as he boards, for old times’ sake. You go ahead and prep the ship. Back in a jiffy.” And he started untying the knots that held the boat aloft, readying it to lower himself down. 

He just heard Anathema whisper to herself, “In a _jiffy_?” before he heard her booming voice resound over the ship. “Prepping for anchor lift, inventory, ropes at the ready, let’s go, everyone!”

God bless Anathema, really.

He lowered the ropes gently in a practiced motion to slowly lower himself down into the lapping waves. He grabbed the little oars, useless things really, and pushed his boat languidly n the direction of the person. If they were dumb enough to have dropped into the ocean in the first place, and apparently undesirable enough that no one had come after him, then he probably deserved an extra minute or two of exercise, he thought.

However, the figure seemed to pick up speed the closer Crowley got, until they were a torpedo under the water of flailing arms propelling themselves forward, barely visible in the ensuing white foam. 

“Hey, buddy,” Crowley yelled over the noise of splashing, “I got you, slow down. You’re fine.” It was useless. The person continued to approach rapidly until they suddenly reached a pale hand up to claw at the edge of the boat desperately. 

Crowley shifted in his seat to balance the added weight, and grasped at the arm reaching blindly up. “Hey, okay, okay!” He laughed. “I’ve got you.” He reached down to the man’s armpit to hoist him up and get his head over water, when he was stricken by bright, blue eyes.

He was frozen.

He was holding Aziraphale in his arms. A very wet, gasping, breathless Aziraphale, but somehow, it was him. 

He held on for dear life, and he definitely did _not_ let his voice crack and falter when he spoke.

“Aziraphale?”

The man smiled broadly and laughed his wide, toothy grin.

“Angel!” Crowley grasped desperately at Aziraphale to pull him up in shock, in a desperate attempt to bring him closer, to hold him, to make sure he was real. However, at the same time, Aziraphale had reached a broad, strong hand up to Crowley’s neck and dragged him down to his mouth to kiss him, and the boat flipped.

Crowley flailed wildly in the water, wondering if he’d died, if he’d drowned and all this was some wild, afterlife dream on the shores of Heaven. How the hell did he get to Heaven?

He felt hands grasp at his shirt and yank him up towards the surface, and when he blinked his eyes open, there they were again right in front of his face. Those damn blue eyes.

Aziraphale smiled, and brought up a hand to wipe the copper hair off of Crowley’s cheekbones. 

“My love.”

He surged forward and met Crowley’s mouth eagerly, and Crowley sobbed at the contact. He gripped Aziraphale’s face with both hands, cradling it with a wretched desperation he’d never felt before.

“Angel? Angel, I don’t,” he mouthed against Aziraphale’s cold, wet lips.

“I came back, Crowley, I came back. I missed you, my love.”

Crowley sighed deeply, every tension released, every grief lost, every ache in his bones replaced with electricity and love.

“Angel---” he cried. Aziraphale wiped a tear that streaked down Crowley’s face.

“I know, my love. I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH okay i tried to end it happy for you, we only have TWO MORE CHAPTERS Y'ALL can you believe. my friend sent me a screenshot of the notes for my first chapter where i had said i would MAYBE get to 15 chapters, max, and i can't believe i ever thought i'd be able to let go of this story after only fifteen. i hope y'all have enjoyed this wild ride. it's all good things from here, my friends. thank you for everything. i love each and every one of you dearly. i hope you liked this one :')
> 
> ADDITIONALLY: i realize there is a LOT of angst in this story so far, so if like me you need to read some TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF and i really mean i'm screaming this is the fluffiest shit i have ever seen my heart flutters with [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24353701/chapters/58726816) that i've had the honor of lightly beta-ing, give it a read!!!!! chapters are already written, and will be updated regularly!!! hope y'all enjoy it as much as i did :) <33


	27. anthony j. crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we catch up to what aziraphale's been up to these past couple weeks. it's really cute y'all. enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh ho hooOOO we're SO CLOSE TO THE END AH. here we go. one chapter left after this. wild.  
> //  
> the life that i have  
> is all that i have  
> and the life that i have  
> is yours.  
> the love that i have  
> of the life that i have  
> is yours  
> and yours  
> and yours.

Crowley looked at him, and looked at him, and looked at him. 

He couldn’t be real.

He couldn’t be.

Crowley was panting heavily and his eyes searched Aziraphale’s wildly, looking for assurance, looking for a hint that it wasn’t real.

He continued to tread water lightly, hair still soaked and clinging to the sides of his face in a wild array, and he kept his hands squarely under Aziraphale’s armpits, on his ribs, holding him up to keep him over water. Aziraphale, in turn, only cradled Crowley’s jaw in his hands and smiled wide, a silly, adoring thing. 

“I don’t understand,” Crowley finally croaked out. 

“I know, dear, it’s quite a...long story,” Aziraphale started, smile slipping off his face a bit. He rubbed his thumb soothingly over Crowley’s cheek. “But it doesn’t matter, none of it matters, I’m here, you’re here.”

“You’re here.” Crowley repeated numbly. He stared at the sky-blue eyes in front of him, just mere inches, and he felt like he couldn't breathe. There was a painful ache in his sternum that wouldn’t go away, and his heart had swelled to an impossible size and he felt he couldn’t contain it, he felt he would explode or cry or scream at any second, or he would die of it. It felt all-encompassing and painful. He couldn’t breathe. “Oh my God---”

“I know, love, I---”

“Get in the boat,” Crowley interrupted urgently and released one hand of its death-grip on Aziraphale to reach behind him and flip the boat easily. He moved his hand quickly back under the water to dig his fingertips into Aziraphale’s ribs. 

“Oh, hey,” Aziraphale jumped at the feeling of suddenly being hauled up into the air and out of the water, and he crawled slowly back into the water-drenched boat. “Dear, I don’t---”

“You’re not getting sick on me again, angel,” was all the explanation Crowley gave before hauling his own body swiftly up onto the boat. He looked around the boat wildly, looking for the oars, only to realize they were quickly drifting away, already a good 20 feet away. 

“Crowley, wait,” Aziraphale started, but Crowley was already diving out of the boat and back into the frigid water headfirst. He swam quickly towards the oars to collect them, and as Aziraphale followed him with his gaze, he heard a slight thump against the side of the boat. He looked down and saw Crowley’s glasses floating in the water precariously, and Aziraphale reached tentative fingers over to grab them, gently shaking them dry as best he could. He held them in his fingers, lost in thought, and was only dragged out of his reverie by an oar flicking past his face dangerously. He felt the air whip by his face, and he looked up to see Crowley hauling himself up once again into the boat, oars now in tow. 

Aziraphale could just hear him muttering under his breath, _What is it with you and jumping out of boats,_ before the boat lurched forward dangerously. 

“Crowley, please, dear,” Aziraphale said, trying to get Crowley’s attention. The man grumbled on. “Crowley,” he said again, forcefully this time. “Look at me.”

Crowley stopped the hurried movements of his arm abruptly and looked up carefully, and the look on his face was almost too much for Aziraphale to handle. It was grief, and longing, and despair, and shame, and guilt, and desperation, and a very, very fragile shining glimmer of hope. Aziraphale felt his eyes getting glassy and blurry at the sudden onslaught of emotions, of wondering what, exactly, Crowley had been through these past couple weeks. Whatever it had been, Aziraphale wouldn’t ask. Not right now. 

Crowley seemed to nod minutely, thankful that Aziraphale understood that he couldn’t speak it right now, he couldn’t feel it all right now, he just had to row. And so he did. 

They rowed back to the ship in silence. 

And they climbed onto the deck of the S.S. Mary in silence. 

And when the crew gave Aziraphale shocked glances, Crowley just grabbed Aziraphale’s hand with the most tired face any of them had ever seen on their captain, and he said, “He needs to dry off.” 

No one questioned them, no one dared speak at the heavy, tired silence the two left behind them on the deck. They watched with wide eyes as Crowley pulled him by the hand and dragged Aziraphale towards the hallway, and led him down to the Captain’s quarters.

Aziraphale just managed to hear Adam whisper behind him in a small, happy, hopeful voice, “He’s back.”

//

Aziraphale was sat, knees bent, naked in Crowley’s bathtub. The hot water reached up to his sternum, and Crowley sat on a small wooden stool outside of the bath awkwardly. Aziraphale could tell Crowley was trying his absolute best not to look at his naked body, and was respectfully looking anywhere but at him. He watched as Crowley played with his sunglasses in his hands, twirling them and bending them just to have something do with his nimble fingers. He was breathing hard, and his face was screwed up painfully. He kept opening his mouth like he might finally say something, and he didn’t. 

Aziraphale waited.

Eventually, a noise came from Crowley. “Mm...I, uh....” Aziraphale waited. 

After another few seconds, Crowley swallowed thickly, and Aziraphale watched the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and he wanted so bad to place sobering kisses down the long line of his sun-tanned throat. 

He waited.

“I. I, uh...didn’t think I’d ever. Mm. See you again.” 

Aziraphale waited. 

“I just….it’s a lot.”

“I know, my love.” Aziraphale sighed and reached forward to place his hand over Crowley’s, stilling his movements as he fidgeted with the sunglasses. The water sloshed quietly around his soft, pale skin. 

Crowley looked up quickly, and Aziraphale felt him recoil gently at the touch. He pulled his hand back.

“Well, I...okay, no, I---” Crowley instinctively moved forward to reach for Aziraphale’s hands again, and seemed to grapple for words that all died at his throat before they ever made it into the tense air around them. “Okay, I. I’m just gonna say...everything. And I...and then you can...take what you like. Deal?”

Aziraphale nodded, not having any idea what Crowley was trying to convey, but understanding how difficult this was for him. The whole words thing.

Crowley glanced back down at his hands and took a deep, shuddering breath. 

“I missed you,” he started carefully. “And I...yeah, I didn’t think you’d be back. I thought. Well, at first I thought you left because...because you wanted to.”

“Dear, I---” Aziraphale began to protest, but Crowley held up a placating hand, and then instead of pulling it back into his lap, he slowly moved it towards Aziraphale’s hand floating in the water. Aziraphale brought his own palm up to meet his, and squeezed tight. He didn’t know what else to do but listen, and be patient, and be here.

“I wanted you to stay with me, to fight with me, to _choose me_. And you didn’t. You chose _them._ The Royals. And I thought...after everything, I thought you didn’t love me, I thought maybe you never really loved me. I don’t know.” He took a deep breath, and didn’t dare look up at Aziraphale’s confused, desperate expression. “But I know...I mean, I _think_ , that you...well, Anathema told me...you were saving my life, I know. I didn’t think of it that way. When I picture my life without you...I wanna throw up. I wanna curl up and go to sleep and never wake up at the thought of anything, _anything_ , happening to you. But something happening to me...it never even crossed my mind that you would...care. So much. That you would give up everything to keep me safe, even if...even if it meant never seeing you again. I don’t…” He took a deep, stuttering breath here, and Aziraphale could feel an increasing trembling in Crowley’s long, bony fingers. “I don’t know if you...if that’s what you were doing for me, or if you just wanted to be home again, I don’t know. Whatever it was, it’s okay, really. Just know that I’m...bound to you, now and forever, and I love you more than...more than anything. If you...well, if you still love me, I’m. I’m here. I always will be. God, I missed you.” Aziraphale opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Crowley squeezed his hand again, and spoke. “But I also wanna say, it’s okay if you don’t. You’re...you’re my best friend, Aziraphale. I’d do anything for you. And if you don’t feel the same anymore, I get it, I do. I’ll take you back to London if you like, I’ll take you home, just say the word.” He let out a breath he’d been holding for weeks. “Okay, I...I think that’s it. If-if you wanna...or---”

“You _idiot_.” Aziraphale took his chance to finally speak.

He watched as Crowley’s pained expression quickly turned to confusion. “I don’t---”

Aziraphale surged forward and pressed his lips to Crowley’s, and he breathed him in deeply. It was the same sort of kiss like they’d shared at their first reunion just minutes ago in the water, but softer, quieter, warmer. 

“I love you so goddamn much, Crowley. Of course I do. I can’t _believe_ you thought, even for a second, that I’d rather be anywhere but here. Don’t you get it? This is home. You’re home for me. I go where you go. Alright?” Aziraphale spoke the words right in front of Crowley’s face, still breathing in his air, and watched as tears slowly dripped out down Crowley’s stubbled cheeks. His eyes danced around Crowley’s face, taking it all in. “Not that I really have anywhere else to be anymore,” he added under his breath with a little chuckle. Crowley pulled back slightly.

“Did something happen?”

Aziraphale reeled back suddenly. Maybe Crowley wasn’t ready to hear this yet. “N-no, I...I was just trying to lighten the mood, it’s nothing, dear, really.” 

“Aziraphale, if they---”

“Oh! Wait, dear, there is one thing, you haven’t run into any Royals, dear, have you?” Aziraphale felt a clench at his heart to know that even now, the Royals were still after him. How could he have forgotten to alert Crowley?

“Mm-no, we haven’t. I don’t...Angel, what’s going on?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief. “Good, they haven’t caught up. Listen, you-you have to be very careful, they’re still after you, and they’re working with the Hellions, I think? I’m not sure, maybe I should have tried to get more information, but then I was---”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice was stern. “I don’t care about me. I don’t care about them. Did they do something to you?”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley desperately, knowing that this...this would be a difficult conversation.

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand tight, and simply said, “Start at the beginning.”

//

“They did _what_ to you?” Crowley asked indignantly, wriggling in his stool and squeezing Aziraphale’s hand half to death. “Are you still hurt? Did they break anything? I’m---” and he groaned loud and furious. “I’ll _kill them all, I_ \---”

“Dear, it’s alright, I’m fine, see,”

“ _No_ , it’s not alright, are you serious? After everything and they, I, oh, I’ll---” and Crowley stood up to pace, throwing his arms up in the air in frustration, mumbling a long series of noises and curses. 

“Dear, come here,” Aziraphale murmured quietly, and extended a pruny hand out of the bathtub and towards Crowley. Crowley had been running his hands furiously through his short, wavy hair, and only turned at the soft tone Aziraphale’s voice had taken. His gaze softened at the sight, and he walked back towards the tub. 

As Crowley’s hand slipped into his, Aziraphale grabbed it tight and used it as leverage to stand, letting the water drip noisily down his body and back into the tub. Crowley’s eyes widened and Aziraphale noticed him making a visible effort to keep his gaze at eye level. 

“Look at me, Crowley. I’m not hurt. See?” He spoke like he was faced with a skittish, frightened animal, and he took the hand still in his and guided it to his waist. “I’m okay. I’m here.” He stepped forward to the edge of the tub, and Crowley, barely dried off himself from jumping in the water after Aziraphale, finally took the opportunity to look down. He skated his fingertips reverently over heated skin, running fingers over freckles and ribs, and round hips. When he was finally satisfied with his once-over, he stepped in and cradled Aziraphale in his arms. They stood there for a good, long while, Crowley rocking Aziraphale carefully in his arms, thumbs rubbing soft patterns over his naked back, nose settled into the crook between Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder. “I missed you so fucking much, angel.”

“And I missed you, my love.” He breathed Crowley in, that particular smell that nothing and no one on Earth could ever replicate. “Help me get dressed?”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

//

In the end, they didn’t get dressed. There wasn’t a need for it. Instead, Crowley had dried off Aziraphale with a big, fluffy towel, and Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s lapels and pulled him in for another chaste kiss. Lips still attached, he slid his hands underneath Crowley’s white shirt, now crispy and dirty from the seawater, and began pushing it up over his shoulders. They did this slowly, and languidly, with the knowledge that there was no rush now. They had all the time in the world. It was soft, and slow, the peeling of layers, but completely chaste. They were tired, existentially. And they deserved a rest.

Crowley dragged Aziraphale by the hand towards the bed, now that they were both nude, and pulled the covers back for him to lay down. Once Aziraphale was settled, he crawled over his body to settle in beside him underneath the covers. Aziraphale giggled when Crowley flopped dramatically next to him and yanked the covers to build a cocoon over them, and then scooted closer to Crowley to nestle his nose into Crowley’s chest. He traced lazy patterns over his heavily tattooed skin.

“They hurt me,” began Aziraphale once they were settled under the covers, the sunlight gleaming in through a window and glimmering in erratic patterns over their white bedsheets. Aziraphale knew that Crowley would have to know sometime, and now that Crowley had calmed down, it seemed as good a time as ever. He thought about how everyday he woke up and thought that maybe tomorrow he’d find Crowley, that maybe soon they’d be together. It was the only thing that kept him going, that made him keep breathing, and working, and moving forward. Knowing that every moment took him further away from the pain of their past and closer to when they would see each other again.

He wondered what it was like for Crowley this whole time, not even having that.

He could feel Crowley’s steady heartbeat under his fingertips when he passed them over Crowley’s chest, and he could see the quickly fading scar that his injury had left on his left inner arm where a blade had sliced through not that long ago. The tattoo on his left temple was more faded than he remembered, and his golden eyes glittered with worship and adoration deep-set in every glance. His hair was splayed across the pillow, and Aziraphale found that he loved his short hair so much, nearly as much, if not more than he liked the long hair. He also got a suspicious feeling that Aziraphale would like Crowley’s hair however it looked, because it was Crowley.

He looked down at his hands curled in Crowley’s chest, and felt arms tighten around his waist, having been wrapped gently over his side. They faced each other, but Aziraphale spoke mostly to the space between Crowley’s chest and his neck, not quite at eye level. It was easier that way. “It was...disheartening...to say the least. I was...surprised at the treatment I received with the Royals, I never...well. I guess I learned my lesson. The Royals had never truly cared about me. I was just another soldier to send off to work, and when they thought they could use me for information, they were...quick to turn on me. I have to say, Sandalphon almost seemed pleased to finally get in a punch. I think he never did like me much.” Aziraphale felt Crowley’s hands clench into a tight fist at his side, and his body tensed.

“Well, anyway, they wanted to know about you, apparently you’ve become quite a thorn in their side.”

“How did they know you’d be on my ship, though? They came for you, specifically.”

“Ah, yes. Remember when we ambushed that cargo ship a while back and that soldier recognized me? And he...you...you got---” He choked for a second, feeling that old familiar tremble crawl back into his bones, that tightness in his chest. 

“I know, angel. I got hurt. I’m okay now,” he soothed, and his hands unclenched at Aziraphale’s side. “So this is all his fault, then, is it?”

“Oh, well, no, dear, I wouldn’t say that. I guess he thought I was kidnapped, in danger. Alerted the authorities. Thought it was the right thing to do, I guess. I...I forgive him for that.”

“Bastard.”

“The real harm was the generals. They used that information not to rescue me, truly, but just a ploy to get information on you. I didn’t tell them anything, by the way, not a word,” he amended quickly.

Crowley sighed sadly, “I wouldn’t blame you if you had.”

“I wouldn’t, you know I wouldn’t. Anyway, they locked me up and I escaped the ship---”

“The whole bloody ship? A Royal ship full of soldiers and generals and you just? Escaped?” And Aziraphale thought he saw a little glimmer in Crowley’s eyes, a little pride, and admiration, and a dark little hint of desire. 

“Yes, well, it was all thanks to you, dear, really.”

“To...me?” The look was replaced by confusion.

“Well, I….well this may sound...ridiculous, but I could hear you speaking to me, like...you were there with me. You helped me get out, you...you made me feel brave. Strong. I couldn’t have done it without you, right idiot I’ve been,” he finished, ashamed.

“Hey. Don’t speak about my friend like that,” Crowley interrupted with a little smile. “That was all you, though, angel. It’s you that was strong and brave. Always so clever.”

“Me? Clever?”

“Yes, you. Clever,” Crowley laughed, and pressed a kiss to the crown of Aziraphale’s head. “Brave.” And he pressed another kiss to Aziraphale’s temple. “Beautiful.” And he tilted Aziraphale's chin up a bit to press a kiss to his forehead. Aziraphale let his eyes drift closed at the contact, and Crowley smiled down at his peaceful face. “I’m going to need all the details of how you fought off a ship full of Royal soldiers eventually, you know. For rainy days.” And he smirked something dark and mischievous. Aziraphale laughed and pushed playfully at his chest in retaliation.

“I will, someday. Not tonight,” he said simply. And after a beat, “General Michael had her hair down, it looked like a bee’s nest, it was so wild.” Crowley burst into laughter and bent his head down in a fit of giggles. “And Gabriel, you should have seen him, not sure he even knew where he was at the time,” and Crowley burst into renewed laughter that turned into silent wheezing. 

“Angel, stop, stop, I can’t,” Crowley forced out in between giggles, and let his laughter die down slowly until eventually it was quiet again. The smile, however, didn’t leave his face.

“I jumped ship and all I had was water and food, a sword, a crowbar, and a boat.”

“A crowbar?”

“Ah, yes,” said Aziraphale fondly. “I’ll miss that crowbar. Good lad.”

Crowley furrowed his brows quizzically, but made no comment. 

“I didn’t know what to do from there, that had been the extent of my plans so far. I needed to get back to you but you were long gone, I’d never catch up. So I did the next best thing; I found someone who could.” He took a deep breath.

“I rowed for a couple hours till I ran into a fishing ship, neutral territory. Just some fisherman who’d wandered out a bit, and from what I remembered about the mapping I’d done with you I knew we were quite close to London, I was bound to run into someone if I sailed in the opposite direction from you. They took me back to London.” Aziraphale hesitated.

“Was it nice to be home?” Crowley asked quietly.

“Honestly, yes. Took a while to get used to being on land again, but the streets, the smells. It was nice. But everywhere I looked it was old memories of being in the Navy, of a sad childhood. I saw my house and instead of feeling...comfort, it felt wrong. It was the place that was given to me by the people that betrayed me to convince me to play their little Army Soldier game. And I was never there anyway, not really. Always out at sea. More of a storage space for all my prized things.” Crowley made a noise of understanding. “So, I sold it.”

Crowley took a long moment to respond. His eyes widened and his body tensed hard around Aziraphale’s. “You...what?”

“I sold the house. It was...never really mine, anyway. And I sold my things.”

“All of them?” Crowley asked desperately, confused at the turn of the story. 

“Well, yes. I kept just some clothes. My ring. Your compass. That’s all, I think.”

Crowley sputtered. “But...your, your books? Oh, your books, but...weren't they rare? You loved them, I, why would you---”

Aziraphale interrupted with a soft touch of fingers to his lips. “I...won’t lie. It was difficult. Some of those books were my parents’. But the really special ones I gave to the children in town, the ones I knew would treasure them. I could never sell those.”

“But, why...why?” Crowley was flabbergasted, expression wild and sad.

“Once I had money, I commandeered a ship and hired a crew. And they brought me to you.”

“But...I...for me? You did all that for...me?” Aziraphale just smiled and felt his heart burst, felt a physical pain, watching Crowley’s face go from disbelieving to sad, to wondering, and happy, and hopeful. “Your books. I...I’m sorry. You...left everything...for me.”

“I’d do it all over again, and again. I knew where you were headed, I just had to recreate the maps and guide the crew to the island. I had to hope I would catch up to you, that you’d be here, that you wouldn’t leave without me. I’d’ve never seen you again otherwise. But, I guess luck was on my side. I don’t...I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here. I really don’t.” Aziraphale’s face quickly turned cloudy and dark, and Crowley didn’t like that at all. 

“But I was. You found me. I’m here.” Crowley pulled his face up by his chin again, and kissed him hard on the lips, a deep, comforting thing. “Your books,” he repeated sadly under his breath again, against Aziraphale’s lips. “I’ll buy you more, I swear it. I’ll build you a whole bookshop full of books and you’ll never have to lose them again. I swear it,” and Crowley pressed his lips desperately against Aziraphale’s, only for him to pull back with a gasp.

“You’re here,” Aziraphale said with surprise.

“Yes, I...I thought we established that.”

“The amulet,” Aziraphale said urgently. “Did you find it? Was it here?” 

Crowley smiled and pulled him back in by the back of his head, back to rest against his chest. “Yes, we found it. We...finally found it. Thanks to you.”

Aziraphale pulled his head back out of Crowley’s embrace to stare at his face, eyebrows up to his hairline. “And? Does it work?”

“I, uh...I haven’t tried it. I’m...well, I didn’t want to do it...without you. It just. It just wouldn’t be the same,” he trailed off sadly. “I realized this whole time I didn’t want to be human, not really. I wanted to be human _with you._ ”

“Oh. Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said, and he placed a hot kiss to Crowley’s velvet, thin lips, and received a kiss back that tasted like grief and sadness and loss. And relief, and love, and hope. 

“We’ll try it,” Aziraphale stated once they separated for a breath. “Whenever you like. Tomorrow or in a year or never. But I’m here now, and I’m not leaving not ever again.”

“Swear it, Aziraphale,” said Crowley, tightening his hold on Aziraphale’s waist. “Please, swear it.”

“I swear it, my love. Never again.”

“Mm,” responded Crowley, content. 

They breathed in the moment, their hearts beating together again, their bodies pressed close. 

“That’s a lot of money for a crew, isn’t it?” Crowley piped up curiously, and Aziraphale found himself pulled out of a light sleep. He hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes. 

“Hm?”

“Bloody good crew you must’ve got,” Crowley said. “Usually, hiring a crew and ship is expensive but...man, I think they oversold you a bit, angel. For a whole house’s worth?”

“Oh, uh, no. I, um. I didn’t spend all the money on the ship.”

“Ah, got a little nest egg for later, have you, angel?” And Crowley smiled. “Hope you put that somewhere waterproof because your little swan dive likely didn’t fare well for it.” He laughed. He looked at Aziraphale’s face and saw some hesitation there. “But, you know, if you didn’t, we’ll just. Ah. Set it in the sun, maybe? It’s alright, angel, I---”

“I bought something. With it.” Aziraphale said, doubt tinting his tone. “With the money, I mean. Can I show you?”

Crowley hesitated, unsure of the direction this was taking, feeling like maybe he’d upset his angel some way, like the energy in the room was suddenly charged, somehow. “Sure, angel.”

Aziraphale quickly slipped out of Crowley’s embrace and out of the bed, and Crowley immediately missed the warmth, the contact, the touch. He rolled over slightly to take in the residual warmth Aziraphale had left behind in the sheets. He groaned petulantly at the loss.

Aziraphale tiptoed quietly, and Crowley took the time to stare appreciatively, hungrily at the retreating angel’s backside, and watched as he bent over to sift through his discarded garments, and pulled out a small, dark bottle, a vial sort of thing, out of his inner coat pocket. It seemed empty, but he could hear something rattling inside, something light. 

“Did you, uh, buy us a drink perchance?” Crowley joked, increasingly worried about where this was going, wondering what unfortunate event this cosmic joke of a universe had blessed them with now. Well. Whatever it was, with Aziraphale here, he could do it. He could do anything. 

Erm, no. Uh, not exactly,” and Aziraphale looked at the bottle in his hand, and then back at Crowley. He stayed standing by the bed, making no move to sit. Crowley was getting nervous. “Dear, I don’t think I’ve ever asked your name, by the way. Your, your whole name, I mean.”

“Just Crowley, really.” He gave his automatic reply without thinking, and then amended. “Well, Anthony. Actually. Don’t tell people that, by the way.”

“No middle name?”

“Uh...J.”

“Jay? The...name or the letter?”

“No, it’s uh...just a J, really.” Crowley squirmed. This was weird. This was weird, right?

“Okay,” Aziraphale said, shifting his weight from foot to foot, still naked but completely comfortable in his skin, the first time he’d ever really felt comfortable being completely in the nude in front of anyone, even himself. He looked down at the vial in his hands, and popped the cork carefully and let something small and metallic fall into his hand. He set the vial down on the bed, and turned back to Crowley. His eyes were nervous, his eyebrows were furrowed, his hands fidgeted.

“Okay,” he tried again. “Well, yes. Erm,” and he slowly brought himself down to one knee, and picked the thing from his palm to hold it delicately between two of his fingers, presenting it nervously to Crowley, still laying on the bed. “Anthony, uh, J. Crowley.”

“No,” Crowley said automatically, recognizing the thing held in Aziraphale’s fingers. It glistened in the rays of sunlight still streaming in. “No, absolutely not.”

“You...you haven’t let me finish.”

“I...no, Aziraphale, no,” Crowley said desperately, crawling quickly out of the sheets and across the bed to get closer to Aziraphale’s kneeling body. “You don’t want to do this, it’s…” he hesitated. “It’s rotten work, it’s...I’m angry a lot, and I’m obsessive, and mean, and I live a dangerous life, you’d never be able to go back to the Royals, you’d...it. I’m a mess, I’m a mess in a human body, and that’s _if_ I’m in a human body, I don’t…” Crowley took a shuddering breath. “You don’t want this.” He looked frantic, and he searched Aziraphale for anything, a hint of doubt, a flicker of truth ringing across his face, anything.

“Anthony J. Crowley,” he started again, more forcefully, determined. He took a deep breath, and he let it out carefully. He put every feeling he’d ever felt with Crowley, the safety of being held in his arms their very first night on the ship, the comfort of dancing in the moonlight cradled in his body, the deep and sudden love when he’d protected Aziraphale from harm, the desperation he’d felt when their bodies were pressed and writhing together, the fear he’d felt while stitching his wounds up, stitch by bloody stitch, imagining a lifetime without this man. He let it all pour out, and let it saturate his very being. 

“Marry me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LADIES AND ALL I'M. this chapter was a wild ride. and we only got one left, i'm???? thank you all so much for BEING here, i am eternally, eternally grateful for each and every one of you. every kudo makes my heart flutter and every comment makes me scream unintelligibly for roughly 4-6 minutes in adoration and amazement. thank y'all sm.  
> i know this was a serious chapter and all, but can i just say i was SHOCKED to find myself, nearly at 100k words, and realizing i have nEVER SAID CROWLEY'S FULL NAME I'M AHHHHHHH  
> also, i couldn't remember how to say someone pulls the covers back. it was a struggle. esl is a trip. i wanted to say they peeled the cover back. PEELED. OPENED THE COVERS. thank you to my lovely [@izabella95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izabella95)that informed me that this is not, in fact, proper english.  
> lastly, there was a hot minute where I had 420 comments and 59 bookmarks and.....I would have sold my soul for 10 more bookmarks SOLELY TO HAVE 420/69 because i'm a child. it didn't happen, obviously. anyway. carry on.  
> THANKS AGAIN EVERYONE I LOVE YOU


	28. you and me, against the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just a really cute wedding!!!!!!!!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the end y'all...buckle up. :'( 
> 
> ///
> 
> always,  
> this is a beginning,  
> and this is an end.

Anathema cleared her throat loudly, impatiently. She was a sweet soul, really. Just a bit rough around the edges, maybe; a tad intimidating in her intensity. But normally quite gentle.

Right now, though, she was getting a bit restless.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered, and squeezed Crowley’s hand. It was an obnoxiously sunny evening, although the sun was quickly beginning to set and the sky was that beautiful amalgam of colors that seemed unreal except in paintings, or maybe in daydream fantasies. Crowley could have even seen traces of purple in the swirl of color, if he’d had the ability to do absolutely anything at all through the haze he was currently in.

Crowley was sweating. He looked at Aziraphale’s hand in his own held in the space between both of their bodies, and he could feel the stares of thirty-some people watching him with bated breath. Just in front of him was Aziraphale, wearing one of Newt’s extra ruffly shirts, crisp white and just a tad on the tighter side. He looked like an angel. His hair was fluffed to the extreme, and looked like a halo of messy, uncontrolled curls over his gentle face. His eyes were literally sparkling and they looked to be the brightest, palest blue he’d ever seen them, bordering even into a grayish tone that looked as clear and honest as he was. Right now, Aziraphale was looking at him with a bit of concern, eyebrows cinched together a bit, lips pursed in their silent question. Crowley’s gaze lingered on those pink lips, and then moved down to appraise himself. 

Crowley was wearing all white, too, a rare thing, except for a long black leather overcoat he wore over the ensemble. He was wearing a billowy white shirt that was tucked into white, tight slacks, and he wore black, snakeskin shoes, the only nice ones he owned. In his hair was braided one plain black strand of cloth that hung down and was tucked behind his ear, and the rest of his hair was tied back in a loose bun. Some strands had already begun to ease out and fluttered about his face. His eyes were uncovered, and he could feel the intensity of every gaze so much more through it all, and he hated it, except for when he looked up at Aziraphale and saw nothing but love, utter and complete and unfailing love. 

He shifted on his feet nervously. He looked to his side where Anathema stood, open book in her hands, and she gave him a bit of a glare. Crowley couldn’t blame her; he’d sort of forced her to officiate the wedding for Aziraphale and him, given that he’d officiated the wedding for Anathema and Newt years back, and he hadn’t even given her a chance to fight back. He’d been so nervous, so anxious as the days crawled by, one day closer to the wedding, one day closer to having a...husband. An angel to himself. And all the while the doubt would creep up and tangle like thorns in his throat before he pushed it down, and assured himself, _Yes, he wants to be here; yes, he came back for me; yes, he wants to marry me; yes, he loves me, he loves me, he loves me._

Crowley had insisted on planning the whole thing. It was his ship, after all. Aziraphale had fought him on it a bit, refuting Crowley’s logic by insisting that since he’d been the one to propose, that it was his responsibility, but in the end, Aziraphale had given in pretty quickly. Crowley knew Aziraphale liked to be spoiled, but Crowley also knew that Aziraphale liked to pretend that he didn’t. So they argued about it for approximately 10 minutes, and then that was that. Aziraphale had almost looked pleased to lose. 

However, Crowley found quickly that he did not have a _single_ idea how in the hell to plan a wedding. He’d never even imagined it, in all his years on earth, to wonder what his wedding would be like. He’d never even pretended to want a wedding; if he ever gave in to the fantasy, even for just a moment, he’d have to face the fact that someone would have to _love_ him first for that to happen.

And that was never going to happen.

Until now, that is.

So when it came time to scrap something together, he’d turned to the only people he knew to have experience in that sort of thing: Newt and Anathema. 

Now, when Anathema had announced she’d wanted to get married, the responsibility of officiating fell to Crowley, as captain of the ship. He had authority over the ship, and it’s not like there were any ministers on board, so the job fell to him. So naturally when it came time for Crowley to get married, he’d asked his second-in-command. Well, not asked. More like demanded.

Anathema had never actually said yes. She’d just sort of...shown up in a nice outfit, black, pressed clothes and hair tied back in a long French braid, with a Bible in her hand on the day of the wedding. And that was that.

Crowley had also gone to Newt, and gotten him to do most of the decorating and such, although Newt eventually recruited the help of the rest of the crew for the big day. It resulted in a sort of hap-dash decoration style; Madame Tracy had lit candles everywhere and had brought a big wad of sage that burned off in a corner, _for good energies_ , she’d said. Shadwell had presented Crowley with a simple pin, which Crowley had had no idea what to do with, and had ended up pinning it over his chest to his shirt. Every once in a while the shirt would shift and the pin would poke him sharply, producing a tiny jump at the most inopportune times. The Them had pulled all manner of seating arrangements from the ship, including stools, boxes, benches, assorted chairs, and exactly one bed, all arranged carefully to resemble rows of benches in a little church. 

It was...endearing, bordering on ridiculous.

Crowley looked back up at Aziraphale, and thought about how he deserved a big, fancy white wedding, with flowers, and music, and a big, diamond ring, and a beautiful, worthy man holding his hands, and he deserved---

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tried again. Another gentle squeeze to his hands. His expression had turned from questioning and concerned to reassuring and comforting, like he could read the exact thoughts running through Crowley’s head.

“It’s not too late, you know,” Crowley whispered in the space between their bodies, facing each other. “We can call this all off.” He rolled his weight from his ankles into his toes, and felt the stiffness in the shoes as he did so. He missed his boots. 

Aziraphale just smiled wistfully back, and a little dimple threatened to appear on one side of his mouth.

Damn that smile.

“My dear,” Aziraphale spoke quietly. “I’ll love you, forever and always. I’m here. I’m not leaving. I’m here.”

Crowley’s eyes turned glassy and he felt another hard pang reverberate through his chest. _He wants this, he wants this, he wants this._

Crowley cleared his throat loudly, and stuck his chin up high in the air, feigning complete confidence, even though he’d been standing there in complete silence for upwards of two minutes now. The boat rocked gently beneath their feet.

“Angel.” He took a deep breath, and began. “Aziraphale. I promise to always love you, with everything I’ve got in my soul. You’ve...changed me. For the better. And I...well. I can never go back to a world that isn’t colored by your existence. You’re my best friend, you know? And I’d do anything for you. You deserve...the world. And I expect to live the rest of my life, every damn day, making sure I can provide that for you. Whatever it takes.” Crowley could feel his fingers trembling beneath Aziraphale’s. The cold metal of his ring weighed heavy on Crowley’s finger, the small, silver thing that Aziraphale had presented him with just a couple days ago. It was exactly like Aziraphale’s golden ring, except it shone that lovely silver color instead, and it had engraved into it a tiny, black snake, just like the one that adorned the side of Crowley’s face. Crowley had been wearing it since, and swore never to take it off. 

He took another deep breath, and tried to control the shaking in his voice.

“It’s you and me against the world now, angel. I’ll never leave your side, as I hope you’ll never leave mine. I’ll take you anywhere you like, and I’ll follow you anywhere you go. I just...I just want to love you. If...if you’ll have me.” 

Crowley took a trembling breath, and in the ensuing, heavy silence, Aziraphale muttered under his breath with a teasing lilt, “Dear, I’ve already said ‘I do’, this is your bit now.”

Crowley laughed, a wild thing that burst out of his chest, at the lightness of Aziraphale’s tone. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe he’d somehow ended up here, with an angel by his side. 

Aziraphale gently wormed a hand out of Crowley’s between them to take a strand of short, copper hair that was flapping wildly in the breeze, and tucked it behind Crowley’s ear. As he pulled his hand back, he let it graze Crowley’s cheek and cradled his jaw, lifting it just a smidge higher, a show of support, of confidence, of patience, of love. He placed his hand back on top of Crowley’s, and waited for him to continue.

And now, how could he, with the huge knot at his throat, tears threatening to run down his face at the intimacy, the domesticity of it all?

“Don’t leave me,” he whimpered quietly, so quietly, that no one could have heard except Aziraphale, and his entire body began to tremble with terror, with this uncontrollable desire. 

“I’m here, my love,” was the sure response, just as quiet. “Forever.”

Crowley swallowed thickly. 

Anathema cleared her throat once again. “Crowley, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, until the end of time?” Anathema said loudly, that commanding, confident tone back in her voice.

And after a long three seconds, the longest of his entire lifetime, a simple “I do.”

Aziraphale smiled so softly, his eyes glittering as he extracted his hands in order to reach inside of his trouser pockets. He pulled out a long, brown string, upon which was tied onto the end of it the smoldering coal of the amulet, still glowing reddish-black under his pale white fingers. He grabbed the string with both hands and looked up at Crowley’s golden-yellow eyes with the first glimpse of doubt he’d shown all evening. 

“Ready?” He said quietly.

Crowley just nodded, and bowed his head down so Aziraphale could reach over the crown of his head to gently place the amulet round his neck. He let his fingers follow the string around Crowley’s neck as Crowley lifted his head back up.

He let out a small gasp upon finally looking into Crowley’s eyes.

“What?” Crowley murmured quietly at Aziraphale’s wide, surprised eyes.

When Crowley had lifted his eyes from the floor, they had no longer been that ochre yellow tone that flooded his eyes with black snake slits through the middle. Now, his eyes had turned human, and the iris had absorbed all that color, painting his eyes that delicate yellow hue. The pupils were large and round, and the whites of his eyes were clear and bright. Staring back at Aziraphale were completely different eyes, but with that same molten gold in his irises, and the same exact warm soul shining through.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed.

Maybe there was noise then from the small crowd, Crowley couldn’t be sure. There probably had been. Cheering and whistling and the sort; he wouldn’t have known. He was suddenly being pulled in violently by the back of his neck and kissed hungrily, desperately, by one love-sodden angel before him. The kiss was deep, and passionate, and maybe slightly inappropriate for their wedding kiss. 

But hey, Crowley couldn’t complain.

He couldn’t hear anything but the surging of blood in his ears, and he couldn't see anything after his eyes had screwed shut. All his world was concentrated into the wet slide of Aziraphale’s lips on his, on the fingers pulling him ever closer, so strongly, to the feeling of Aziraphale’s warm breath in his mouth, the graze of teeth on his lower lip. He couldn’t help but moan quietly into the space between them. His hands shot up to grip at Aziraphale’s waist tightly. 

“Husband,” Crowley smiled into the kiss and breathed the words out disbelievingly directly into Aziraphale’s mouth. “I love you, husband.”

“I love you too, _husband_ ,” replied Aziraphale, and his own smile had become so wide that they had to stop kissing, and instead they pressed their foreheads together tightly, and just stared, stupid, giddy smiles on both their faces.

//

The night echoed loudly across the lapping water with laughter and voices shouting over the music; despite not having much on a pirate ship that could count as party material, Crowley was still determined to give Aziraphale the party he deserved. Crowley had asked the kitchen staff to make as nice a dinner as they were able and he brought out all the good alcohol he could find. He’d also asked Adam to assist him in carrying out that old gramophone Aziraphale loved, and had blasted the one vinyl record they owned. Nobody cared that it was the same ten songs hour after hour after hour. Least of all Aziraphale.

“My dear, this is just...this is an absolute dream. I still can’t believe that you...that we---”

“I know, angel. Me neither.” Aziraphale’s face was tucked under Crowley’s jaw and they swayed gently to the floating, gentle music. It was the same song they’d danced to once upon a time, so long ago now. It was the same as it had been then, the same love, and yet so different.

Crowley glanced up into the dark black sky, and saw Ophiuchus staring back down at him, the stars glittering mutely in the sky in eternal, expansive constellations that stretched from one never-ending horizon to the next.

He rubbed soft, soothing patterns into Aziraphale’s back, and he bowed his head back down to breathe in that particular scent that was indescribable, just so...Aziraphale. He buried his nose in Aziraphale’s curls, and sighed. “I can’t wait to do everything with you,” he whispered into his hair. “We have a whole world to conquer, you and I.”

“Ah, yes,” replied Aziraphale into his chest, and Crowley could feel the soft rumble of his voice in his ribs. “Little markets to plunder, books to steal.” He giggled. “England has no idea the horrors that will become it.”

“England? Angel, we can go _anywhere_. We have,” and his voice turned serious suddenly. “We have forever. We can do anything. Together.”

Aziraphale looked up slowly, and didn’t even try to hide the hideously adoring look in his eyes. “Yes, we can, dear. Anything at all.” Crowley hummed. “But have you ever been to the South Downs?”

“Erm, no. I haven’t. I guess I haven’t really been anywhere.” He chuckled self-deprecatingly.

“I think you’d like it,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I think if we...if we ever wanted to...have a place, you know. Like you said. To keep your plants, to...to drink all that wine you’ve got stored away. I think that could be...our place, you know? I always did want to retire out there, it’s...it’s so quiet. I think you’d like it.” His voice was a little raw, a little vulnerable for some reason.

Crowley looked down at Aziraphale and found him staring quite seriously up at Crowley from his spot on his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, of course, angel, we can do that. And we can keep your books there. All the books you like.”

“We could have guest rooms, for the crew. You know, maybe Adam would like to visit someday, I don’t know.”

“Mm. Maybe...maybe a really big kitchen where I can cook you all sorts of decadent things, angel.”

“Oh, and I could buy you all sorts of seeds and things, and you could start a garden, oh. Dear, that would be lovely, wouldn’t it?”

“Or an orchard, a whole sea of fruit trees as far as the eye can see.”

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale said excitedly, suddenly feeling the beautiful, heavy weight of _forever_ on his heart, in his ribs, in his throat. He tightened his hold on Crowley’s waist, and Crowley held him even more solidly against his body. 

Aziraphale let the silence sit between them happily, before a dark thought crossed his mind. “They’ll always be after us. After...you.”

Crowley continued to sway Aziraphale in his arms, to cradle him in his broad, inked arms. He pressed a soft kiss to the crown of Aziraphale’s head. “Maybe. And we’ll deal with that when we get there. For now, we’ve got each other.”

“We’re on our own side, now, aren’t we?”

“Exactly right, angel.” Crowley chuckled. “Thank goodness that now I’ve got this strong, badass angel to protect me, oh, what would I do without you?”

Aziraphale giggled and pushed lightly at Crowley’s chest. “Oh, stop teasing, you foul fiend.”

“I’m not teasing!” Crowley laughed. “Seriously, you fighting a ship full of Royals with nothing but a crowbar and a sword? I will forever be impressed by that. And you _still_ have to tell me that story, don’t think I’ve forgotten. And the sight of you with two swords? Oh, I’ll never be able to watch you train again without getting a _serious----_ ”

“Okay! Okay, I get it, thank you, dear.” He laughed easily, comfortably. “No need to be lewd in front of the entire crew, now.”

“No, there will be plenty of time for that tonight,” and Crowley ducked his head lower to mouth suggestively at Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale tightened his hold around Crowley’s waist, and tried mightily, but unsuccessfully, to stifle a moan as his eyes fluttered shut involuntarily. 

Crowley laved at the skin deliciously, and left a wet, hot kiss there before nipping at the skin there, just barely grazing with his sharp teeth. “We could just...disappear from the party for a bit, run away. Nobody would even notice us,” and he nipped again at the wet skin, only to push the fabric of his shirt at the shoulder down to reveal more skin further down, and he ran his tongue across the newly revealed skin impatiently. 

Aziraphale sighed happily, but said, “They would notice us, Crowley, it’s _our_ party, you snake. We’ll have time later. We have all the time in the world, now. Plus, I only plan on getting married once, you can’t blame me for wanting to enjoy this party till the end, can you?”

Crowley smiled against his skin, and pressed one more chaste kiss to his shoulder before pulling the sleeve of his shirt back up over his shoulder. He pressed another warm kiss to the side of his neck, and then another on his temple. “Of course, angel. We have all the time in the world.”

Aziraphale rested his forehead gently right over Crowley’s heart, and he could hear the steady beat thump over, and over, and over.

This was real.

And all the time, the music continued to play, to bounce endlessly across the waves and off into the night, where the moonlight gave everything a silvery-white, ethereal glow. It felt eternal.

“To think,” Crowley started, “that this all could have been one bit different, and we might’ve never met. I’d’ve never attacked your ship, you’d’ve never fallen into my lap, and we’d never ‘ave....gotten to this.”

Hmm,” Aziraphale murmured. “Strange, isn’t it?”

Crowley thought quietly.

“Ineffable,” he added.

Aziraphale hummed. 

“I love you, angel.”

“I know, my love,” Aziraphale breathed in the smell of Crowley, and wondered about growing old with Crowley, about dancing with him in the living room of their cottage someday, of drinking wine and teasing and restaurants and picnics, and intimacy and domestic life and waking up surrounded by warmth and love and comfort and happiness for every day of the rest of forever.

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm crying really hard y'all. das it. the end. :( I'M SO SAD TO SEE THIS FIC END but i could not have asked for a better reaction from y'all.... every-single-comment fuels my gd soul seriously. thank you for everything, for being here every step of the way, for following the chapters, for subscribing, or hitting the kudos, or just for being here and making it this far (NEARLY 100K YALL i really fuckin thought this was gonna be like...10k maybe. lol.) 
> 
> there's so much that didn't make it into the story just because of flow and plot and whatever...so if y'all have any questions AT ALL, please feel free to post in the comments and i can answer that for you. for example, did you know that crowley has 23 tattoos all over his body?? a boy be INKED. and i never really got to it because i had two idiots to deal with jumping off ships and bleeding out and fighting entire crews with crowbars!!! mm anyway, i love you all, i hope this fic has provided you with some modicum of happiness or comfort or even distraction in these heavy times. i love you all. 
> 
> also, i got really addicted to this whole writing thing, so if you'd like to, follow me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/alwayscomewhenyoucall)and i'll let y'all know if i start a new one!!! okay that's ENOUGH sorry for the depressing goodbyes, thank y'all!!! love you!!!


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